


Freedman

by Hardwood_Studios



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Dubious Consent, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Male Slash, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hardwood_Studios/pseuds/Hardwood_Studios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: 469 B.C, Athens. Stiles, the most curious slave in all of Athens, catches the eye of one Derek Hale, King of Sparta. Against his will, King Hale takes him as his personal concubine. [Derek/Stiles]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gold Stains

**Author's Note:**

> Edited: 8/26/2015  
> Enjoy!

469 B.C.  
Αθήνα, Athens

A fair of sorts had come upon the land suddenly. The agora was alive with color and firelight in the evenings, heckling merchants in the early mornings. Vendors and craftsmen shouted, beckoned, and sold without pause for breath. Grand hunts went on, and groups of men returned from the near wilderness with limp animals over their shoulders. Fish, wine, armfuls of bread, and barrels of oil - all in preparation for a citywide feast, was the speculation. Theaters were dressed for epic plays, and stadiums readied for beast and sport. 

It was curious. Athens celebrated often, but always with significant purpose. This fair seemed wasteful in its lack thereof. Stiles frowned, prying open a cardamom pod. Inside was a small seed. He dropped it in the growing pile. Scott watched him with an easy smile, absently grinding the black seeds into fine, gray powder. “What a scary face.” He finally said. Stiles spared him a look.

“Are you not the least bit curious?” He asked, gesturing wildly as he was prone to do. The open window brought harsh sun and noise. Midday brought the distant roar of the market. Citizens, slaves, mysterious foreigners, confused livestock, and wood carts all mingling in a familiar cacophony. “No.” Scott said. “I can’t say that I am.” Stiles found this disconcerting, to be so content with ignorance. He rolled a brittle pod between his fingertips, feeling the little veins and bumps. “I am.” He huffed. “And you should be too.” 

"You're always curious, enough for us both."

“Is that an accusation?” 

Scott smothered a laugh. “Must everything be some accusation against you?” 

Stiles didn’t answer, his mouth getting away from him as it always did. “This whole fair can’t be for nothing. There must be a purpose. Appeasement? Of whom, the Gods?” He was muttering now, more for his own benefit. Scott wasn’t bothered by this, only amused. Stiles had a vast mind. It was vast enough to sprout legs, as it wandered often; wondering, discovering, solving. He was insatiable in his pursuit of knowledge, unlike Scott. Scott was content with simplicity, accepting things as they were. 

Scott didn’t want much, but like any man, he still wanted. He sighed suddenly, dropping his bony chin in the cup of his hand. “I saw the Lady Argent with her father.” He sounded sullen even to his own ears. Stiles stopped his nonsensical muttering. He looked at Scott expectantly. “She wore blue. I think it was silk.” His eyes went soft and foggy. Stiles pursed his lips. Allison Argent, daughter of the wealthiest house in Attica, second in power only to Pericles. 

The Argents had a reputation for ruthlessness, though Allison seemed sweeter than Sunday wine. She was a rare beauty, with skin like polished marble and hair falling over her shoulders in whispers of nighttime. She was a pretty piece of furniture most distinguished men sought to furnish their home with. Neither had ever spoken to her. They’d lose their tongues, possibly their heads. Slaves didn’t speak to highborn citizens unless addressed directly. Somehow, Scott fell flat on his face for her. He spent his days thinking of her and his nights dreaming of her. As far as Stiles could tell, unrequited love was absolute misery.

“You’re insufferable.” Stiles flicked an empty pod and laughed as it bounced off the end of Scott's unsuspecting nose. Scott recognized the distraction for what it was. He made a huffy noise. “You’re the insufferable one.” He took the pestle and renewed his previous efforts. The seeds popped like cherries under the grinding stone. They worked until they had a fair ounce of cardamom powder. Herbs and spices were always in high demand, now especially. Their Master, who they referred to as Deaton per his request, trusted them enough to handle most requests.

Stiles stood, feet slapping the floor, and filled a sheepskin pouch with the freshly ground cardamom. “Perhaps you’d like to run this out?” He tried weakly, offering up the pouch. 

Scott scoffed and jerked an unamused thumb over his shoulder, where sand and sunshine whispered through the open threshold.

x

Small, barbed rocks clung to the soles of his feet. Elbows beat against his ribcage, and sun fell on his head in unforgiving sheets. A crest of voices rising up, up. Stiles clutched the pouch to his breast and twisted between seizing bodies. He held his breath, peering over heads and shoulders. He could just make out the jagged, squarish top of the Acropolis. It stood tall and floral white, a sprinkle of trees jutting from the rockside. 

A shadow suddenly stretched over him. He cursed his own inattention, as he nearly fell over the worn step of the south Stoa. 

The Stoa was a noontime refuge, teeming with slick bodies by that late hour. It was a long structure with hollowed out insides and ribbed columns. Men gathered there to talk state and gesture madly. They cooled in the relative shade, wiping wet grime from their brows. Faint splashing and fairyesque laughter sounded from the neighboring fountain house. Stiles licked his dry lips and ducked between a procession of pony carts. 

As alive as any red heartbeat, the marketplace was arguably the center of social Athens. It was unregulated madness, and Stiles knew to be wary. Merchants were thieves if nothing else. They’d bleed a good man dry, nary a drachma to his name, and do so cheerfully. He spotted a familiar booth in a shady nook and hastened over. He greeted the vendor with a scowl, she scowled back. They scowled more out of habit than genuine dislike. 

“Morrell.” He said shortly. She was tall, whip thin, and dark skinned. Her hair was like spilled ink,and her face somewhat cherubic. Though her soft, feminine features belied the harshness of her person. She was the complete opposite of his tender hearted Master, and not for the first time, Stiles wondered at their shared blood. They were siblings, supposedly.

“Do you have my cardamom?” She held out her hand, having little to do with pleasantries or idle chat. 

"Pleasant as always."

She didn’t say anything, just shook her hand impatiently. Stiles raised unimpressed brows and stuck out his own hand. “Five οbolus.”

One should never let their product go without first receiving payment, or you’d never see a coin of what you’re owed. Morrell was as underhanded as any vendor. Stealing came like breathing, second nature. She didn’t differentiate between strangers and kin. 

She scoffed and pulled five coins from the oxhide pouch at her hip. She dropped them in his upturned palm. He tucked them away in the stiff folds of his chiton. “Pleasure doing business with you.” He said dryly, handing over the cardamom. She snatched it up and spared him a sickly sweet smile. She held the sheepskin at eye level, bouncing it absently. “I’ll be needing three more ounces.”

Stiles frowned hard. Her spite knew no bounds, which he learned quickly after their first few dealings. He had a scathing counter at the ready, but it was forgotten in the next breath. The constant roar of the market behind him fell to near silence, just bare whispers and restless cattle. It was immediate, like pinching out a candle’s strong flame. Stiles stiffened. The dead air at his back hung heavy. Morrell was staring at something over his shoulder. Her dark eyes were big and unblinking. 

thump, thump, thump, thump. It was faint at first, but growing louder. Soon, it was like thunder trapped in the earth. Stiles recognized it for what it was: marching. Strong soles smacking the ground in seamless unison. He turned, craning his neck. There were too many people to see through, and his unfortunate stature kept him from seeing over. The marching was so loud, it couldn’t be more than a double pace away. He caught brief glimpses of crimson and dark metal. Then, almost mechanically, the crowd parted. Down the Panathenaic way, from the Dipylon gate, came a small army. They were red clad; tunics and cloaks whispering over hard, brown skin. 

They wore flanged cuirasses, and fitted greaves clung to their shins. Doru and leather shields painted with the letter lambda were pulled tight to their bodies. Stiles held his breath. There were a hundred men, at least, each bigger and more unruly than the last. Spartan soldiers? He mouthed in confusion and slight awe. 

Some strides ahead of the rest was their leader. He stood out, despite being a similar height and cut as the men tromping behind him. His presence made him seem bigger. He wore very little plating, his stomach and thighs visibly rippled with every step. His hair cropped out in small, black cliffs; his jaws were kept warm by coarse scruffle. His eyes looked black from a distance, but revealed themselves to be some kind of green the closer he approached. They flickered from face to slackened face. A short doru was held loosely in one fist, no shield to be seen. His utter lack of defense was either extremely good faith, or an overestimation of his own invincibility. Stiles knew this man to be King. 

The procession of Laconians passed close, a scant five feet from the stall, but Stiles didn’t move away. His nerves were a minor current beneath the rush and crash of his curiosity. As the King [Hale, King Hale, Stiles absently reminded himself] marched past, he glanced over. A quick cut of the eyes, nothing substantial, but those eyes found him easily enough. They looked at each other, just for a moment. His stare was like a jab to the throat, stunning him and stealing all his air. A small sound got stuck in his throat. 

As suddenly as it snared him, he was left breathless in the kicked up dust. The Laconians marched on until they were just a faint sprinkle of red betwixt white roofs. The corpselike quiet instantly gave way to deafening, unintelligible noise. Everyone was wild in their distress; they clambered and shouted over each other. Stiles shared a considering look with Morrell before slipping back into the fray. 

Spartan soldiers had come to Attica. 

x

He crashed into the workshop and dropped his five obolus on the tabletop. They scattered and rolled over the edge, bouncing in the dirt. He didn’t stop to gather them. “Scott! Scott!” But the workshop was empty. Groaning loudly, he hurried across the courtyard. Faint grunting sounded from the store house. He found Scott there, hefting a sack of sorghum over his shoulder. “Scott!” Scott started and whipped around fast enough to crack his neck bones. 

“Gods, what are you trying to do?” He shot Stiles a reproachful look. 

Stiles ignored the question. “Did you see them?” He asked excitedly. His cheeks were festival red, and his eyes shone like whiskey warming in the sun. 

Scott had the good graces to look confused. “Who?”

“Of course.” Stiles sucked in a big mouthful of air. “Did you hear them then? The marching?” 

Scott frowned. He shook his head, sending his shaggy curls a’jostle. Stiles mouthed wordlessly, as he was a little appalled at Scott’s nonethewiser nature. “The - the - !” 

“Laconians, soldiers from the Capital.” Deaton finished crisply. He nearly scared his young help out of their respective skins.. He stood in the doorway, casting broad shadows across the straw and silt. His dark face was grim. Scott promptly drained of color, rivaling the morning ash in his gray paleness, and dropped the sack at his feet. 

“Spartans? Here?” His voice had gone faint. 

Stiles snapped about, all big grin and feverish question. “You saw them too?” 

“I haven’t, though I knew to expect them."

“Why didn’t you say?” Stiles looked positively scandalized.

“Little time. I was kept in Council overnight.” He seemed to age decades in a single breath. The lines deepened around his closed mouth. “They’ve put us to work, boys. We report to the Panathinaiko at first light.” 

This earned him confused frowns from both. Slaves weren’t permitted to participate or spectate in sport or games. Neither had stepped foot inside the Panathinaiko; they’d never bore witness to its climbing rings and proud ghosts. Deaton was constantly disheartened by their considerable lack of rights, however hard he tried to hide it. His smile was tired and seethrough. “The games begin tomorrow, midday. We’ll be acting as onhand healers for the inevitable casualties.” 

Confusion gave way to excitement. Stiles bounced on the balls of his chalky feet and grinned with teeth and gum. 

“Why now? They’ve never needed us before, only you.” Scott was the one to ask, surprisingly. 

Deaton scrubbed a hand over his shaven head. The short stubbles pulled on his callouses, and the sensation grounded him a little. “Some of our Spartan guests are joining the festivities. The Council expects they won’t be holding back, their collective pride is something of legends.” He laughed dryly. The excitement was quick to drain from the room. Scott and Stiles shared a panicky look. Neither had any great desire to get close and personal with a Laconian. No sane man did!

They knew not to argue. That night, little sleep was had. Stiles followed the blossoming, ceiling cracks with tired eyes. He twisted his fingers in the wool throw. He was too warm. The fleece ended up tangled tight around his ankles. He bit into the soft meat of his lips and chewed earnestly. He wondered at the particular stain of green that afflicted him so [malachite? olive?] and remembered a harsh, red backdrop with no small amount of trepidation. Scott had gotten to sleep minutes earlier. His muted snores were a tiny comfort. Stiles breathed harshly through his nose, flipping over and squirming in the timeworn dips of his bedding.

Morning came too soon. 

They were up scant moments before first light. They bathed, dressed, and gathered a plenitude of linen wrap and herbal paste. Not much was said, as Scott and Stiles were still wary of the day to come. Deaton ushered them into the dim street with both hands warming between their shoulder blades. “You’ll be alright. You are capable.” He said. They breathed and took his confidence to heart. The walk to the stadium was hurried and muggy, as the sun was beginning to stab through tall cloud heaps. 

They came upon the Panathinaiko soon enough, and it was something to see. 

She was many things: big, beautiful, shining, and sloping. Ring upon ring of ascending, marble steps sat atop thick column supports. In the center was a long, ovular pool of freshly raked dirt and stone platforming. Torch baskets sprouted from the round corners like blackened saplings. Scott and Stiles openly gawped, their heads on a constant swivel. Despite their early start, they weren’t the first to arrive. Men and women milled about like honey bees in the first of Spring, doing everything that needed doing. 

They swept furiously with their straw brooms, filled each torch basket with dry kindling, and hung velvet drapery between every archway. Stiles laughed incredulously, temporarily forgetting his anxiety in the rock tunnels from which they came. “This is incredible!” He elbowed Scott in the ribs. Scott looked just as starstruck. He wore his signature dopey smile. “I wish we could’ve seen it sooner.” 

Stiles’ face dimmed, before immediately brightening again. “We’re seeing it now, that’s what matters.” 

Deaton was secretly pleased with Stiles’ positivity and near endless enthusiasm. It lightened his heavy load. The guilt of owning another human being was sometimes unbearable. He reminded himself it was for their own good. They weren’t slaves under his roof, they were family. He inhaled his sigh and lead the way to their makeshift station. It was just inside the mouth of a ground tunnel. A long bench had been provided for their working convenience. 

The morning hours were spent in preparation, though not much preparation was necessary on their part. The games were set to begin at noon and would continue late into the evening. Noon came quicker than Hermes. The Panathinaiko was suddenly throbbing with sound and spectators. Stiles watched, amazed, as the stadium filled one ring at a time. Deaton said there would be chariot races [two horses, then four horses], foot races, horse riding, and raw combat. Not to the death, he explained, but nonetheless brutal. Especially brutal, considering the few Spartan participants. 

Stiles frowned. He sincerely hoped no Spartan would need his medical attentions. If rumors were to be believed, Spartans weren’t the easiest to wound, and treating them proved an even tougher challenge. 

Right on cue, a significantly smaller group of Spartans filed into the stadium. Their scarlet tunics made them easy to spot amidst the neutral colors of the arena. They stood very still and uniform with their fellow athletes; Stiles could just make out the tops of their unruly heads. He swallowed, suddenly parched. Scott hurried to his side and followed his gaze across the pit. “What are you thinking, Stiles?” He asked, a snitch of desperation in his question.

He didn’t answer. 

The games were kicked off with much pomp. Pericles offered a few words welcoming their Laconian guests and wishing every competitor the favor of Ares. Runners, for they were more sinew than brawn, lined up for the stadion races. One stade was the length of the stadium. Then two stades, to the end and back. Finally, a crippling seven to twenty four stades, long distance. They ran like Hades’ hounds were at their heels. Onlookers screamed and stomped their delight. Some trackmen dropped from exhaustion, stuttering in the dirt. The shame and desperation of the fallen competitors only whipped the crowds into a bigger frenzy. Stiles found their bloodlust morbid and disconcerting.

Soon after the runners dragged themselves from the pit, horses clopped in to replace them. Simple chariots were at their backs. They bobbed their heads, stiff manes flopping against their powerful necks. Twelve laps later, and the crowd was hysterical in their excitement. Stiles could admit he was a little hysterical too

Jockeys and their aerodynamic steeds took position, preparing to kick up earth. Around, around, faster, faster, their final lap, just around the bend. Scott and Stiles were bumping shoulders, laughing raucously, and betting money they didn’t have. Soon, the games had narrowed down to the simplest and harshest of human physicality [purple knuckles, cracked teeth, shattered finger bones, and swollen eyes]. Wrestling, regulated violence. Men shed their tunics and stepped into the hastily scratched circle. 

The noise was deafening. Stiles couldn’t hear himself think, let alone what Scott had been trying to say for the past five minutes. The fights, the Spartan contenders especially, were hard to watch. The sheer brutality turned Stiles’ stomach. Men were tossed in the dirt like burlap sacks. Elbows dropped, knees thrown out, fists and legs snapping too quick to follow. Blow after terrible blow, until one fell. Three fair falls were necessary to win a match. It didn’t take long for their bench to fill with the broken, purpled shells of once mighty and proud athletes. By the seventh match, some men were crumpled against the tunnel wall and curled in the dirt, as the bench was completely occupied. 

Deaton tended to the more serious injuries. He set and wrapped all manner of broken bones. Scott and Stiles were left scrambling. They wiped sand and tacky blood from any open wounds and applied the crisply smelling salve with careful fingertips. As their patients weren’t the kindest or most grateful, having just been publically trounced, they took care to be gentle and brief in their treatment. Stiles was kneeling at the feet of a Carian warrior. He pressed a wrapped ice chunk against the dark, almost black, smattering of bruises trailing his calf. Unlike his fellow wounded, he’d won his fight. He hadn’t fought a Spartan, but a Crotone.

A piercing ripple of cries rocked the stadium on its old foundations. Stiles looked up, tweaking his neck in the effort to see. Two more men faced off in the pit. They stood with pulled back shoulders and dug their toes in crimson sand. One man, Stiles knew at first glance. His heart stumbled over itself, skipping a few beats, then thudding harshly. He wore no armor, no scarlet tunic. Just him and the red afternoon. His muscles jumped and rolled under his browned skin as he took a low stance. Stiles swallowed audibly. 

“I thank the Gods this was not my fight.” The Carian uttered warily. Stiles jumped, as he’d momentarily forgotten his place. He breathed a short apology and pressed the ice more firmly. The Carian flapped a dismissive hand. “Don’t fret. It isn’t every day one sees a Spartan, let alone a King, in battle.” 

Stiles turned to peer over the short wall again. The match was just beginning. The opponents circled, both looking for an opening. One was obviously more hesitant than the other. Unsurprisingly, the Spartan lunged first. He ducked and wrapped both arms around his opponent’s naked midsection, slamming him down with devastating force. Even from that distance, Stiles heard his skull crack the ground. Fat, brown clouds rose up around them. The referee shouted, calling point. The King stood and backpedaled three steps. His opponent, a nameless Persian, was slower to rise. 

Again, they circled. The Persian held himself tensely. His brow trembled and his eyes glistened with fever. He was terrified. The King smiled something cruel, Stiles could see the whites of his teeth, and jammed a knee into the Persian’s soft belly. A stifled cry, and he was skidding out of the marked pit [point two]. The spectators were on their feet by this point, as were the presiding officials. With obvious reluctance, the Persian stepped back in the pit. The King wasted no time in meeting him with a chokehold. The referee called for time, but was ignored by all. Stiles held his breath without meaning to. 

The King tightened his arm about that fluttering gullet, leaving no room for breath. It took scant seconds for the Persian to concede. He tapped his fingers desperately against the arm at his throat. The referee called point three, and no one voice was distinguishable in the uproar. The King released his opponent, and disappointment was barely perceptible in the downturn of his mouth. The Persian crumpled, gasping for air and mapping out the purple band circling his neck with disbelieving fingers. 

His eyes moved over the sea of twisted, bobbing faces. He didn’t throw his fists up or expel a masculine victory cry. If he felt anything positive in that moment, it was completely masked under the blank expression he wore. For a second time, that unrelenting stare found him. Stiles might have inhaled his own tongue. He blinked, too shocked to do much more. They watched each other for a breathless minute. Eyes, lidded with something, dropped down the length of his face. Stiles flushed to the roots of his hair. Zeus be damned, was he getting closer? He couldn’t breathe. His heart was beating hard enough to leave webbed cracks in his ribs.

The closer his approach, the more panicked Stiles became. He felt his pulse in his temples. When he reached the mouth of the tunnel, Stiles decided he was going to die. The King was going to kill him for making direct eye contact, not once, but twice. He was suddenly right there, standing over him and casting shadows too long and dark. He cut a thin look at the Carian, who immediately stood. The King made himself comfortable on the bench, looking as though he’d claimed it for a new throne. The tunnel was silent, a mute pocket mid the outside clamor. They hadn’t looked away from each other. Stiles couldn’t. He told himself fear kept his gaze, nothing else. He was a scared mongoose to the King’s hungry snake.

“My thigh.” He murmured, spreading his legs. He drummed big fingers against his inner thigh. “I’ve bruised it.” 

With burning cheeks, Stiles looked at the aforementioned area. He determinedly avoided the nakedness between those powerful legs, as most men went without undergarments [out of preference or poverty]. He found nothing. There was no bruising or swelling, just sand and thick mats of hair. Stiles wasn’t stupid. He knew a falsehood when presented so intimately with one, but he couldn’t call the Laconian King a liar. He retrieved a new ice chunk and wrapped it in wool cloth. His ears burned as he held the ice in place. Anger and embarrassment were written plainly on his face. Unfortunately, the silence didn’t last.

“You’re a slave.” 

Stiles didn’t look up. The King’s eyes were weighty on him. “I am.”

“Your name.” He wasn’t asking, but giving a command. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t one to take commands easily. Deaton asked, never commanded. 

“Stiles.” He answered quietly, hoping the King wouldn’t hear. 

“Odd.”

Stiles grit his teeth. He loved his name. He chose it himself, it was the only thing he owned. “Thank you.” He bit out. His teeth snapped noisily. A few seconds went by, then a few more. Stiles feared he may have overstepped himself. The King huffed, amused.

“Do you know who I am, Stiles?” 

The way his own name sounded from that mouth, like a [sinful, terrible] promise, had heat pooling in his gut. Stiles licked his lips nervously. His hands loosened around the ice. “King Hale of Sparta.” His voice was absolutely meek. He blushed hotly. A mean chuckle shook the King’s chest. “Do you know my name?” He said. Stiles looked for a distraction in the bumps and dips of his pale knuckles. 

“It would be disrespectful to address you otherwise.” 

Several more seconds were lost to a heady silence.

“Look at me.” Another command, this one sharper than the last. After a split second of hesitation, Stiles did. The intensity of it was near painful. Again, he held his breath without realizing. Only when his lungs burned up did he allow himself a shaky inhale. He wanted to be defiant and turn his face away, but something kept his eyes tacked onto the unyielding lines of that Spartan face. Stiles hated this vulnerability, but he couldn’t touch down to land. 

“My name, Stiles.” 

Stiles did know his given name. He knew a lot of things. The King seemed to sense this. 

“I - Your name...” He cleared his throat quietly. “Derek.” 

x

The Bouleuterion was a place of prominence and politics. The Council of Five Hundred met there regularly. It was a mostly open space. The slanting, tiled roof stopped midway across the hall, leaving half the chamber in shade. There were rows and rows of wooden benches curling around the center in an amphitheater fashion. Councilmen filled those benches, hardly a hairsbreadth between them. They murmured amongst themselves in hushed, conspiratorial tones. It was just after sunset. The games had ended with the moon’s peak. Firelight shuddered lazily in iron baskets mounted all around the room. 

Derek and two of his best men stood before that multitude of archaic bones, waiting to be addressed. Backs straight, shoulders broad, chins out; every inch of them was Spartan made. Derek pursed his lips. He was a little miffed at having been kept waiting so long. Pericles, perhaps the most prominent and influential statesman, orator, and general of Athens [the unofficial ringleader of these councilmen and their “democratic” city], was round faced with tight curls. His square brow hung low over nasty slits. Even before their meeting, Derek had cultivated strong feelings of dislike and mistrust for this man. Those feelings were only cemented upon seeing him. 

He turned to face them. “King Hale of Sparta. I must say, you are your father’s son.” 

His words brought silence to the room. Derek frowned, unsure how to interpret that. For the sake of diplomacy, he took it positively. “So I am, though my father is not relevant to what brings me here now.” 

“Oh? And what has brought you here, my King? We did not expressly request your presence, if memory serves correct.” He had the audacity to feign ignorance. Derek was quickly growing agitated with his pussyfoot tactics. 

“You deny any involvement in the Naxos blockade?” There would be no tiptoes, no carefully skirting the issue. Derek wasn’t a politician, he was a leader. The chamber rumbled with hundreds of pitchy outcries. Pericles flared his nostrils in quiet anger. Short tempered, Derek was secretly pleased to learn. “No, we do not deny our involvement. The blockade was necessary.” Again, a hush fell over the room. 

“If we’re speaking of necessity, the Delian League is no longer one. The war with Persia has ended, the only reason for its creation. Naxos saw the foolishness in bleeding tax money for an unnecessary cause.” He boomed. His voice carried over the hall with definitive authority, reminding every man in it of who he is and why he’s come to interrupt the unperturbed peace of their city. Pericles was unruffled. He laced up his fingers and rested them against his breast plate. “King Hale, please. This council was meant to be brief. Let us save those heavy topics for a later time. I want you and your men to enjoy our city, before politics ruins us all.” 

Derek ground his teeth. He suspected Pericles was going to waste as much of his time as he possibly could. “Of course.” He agreed tightly. 

“Perhaps you or your men have any requests, to make your stay more enjoyable?” He asked, ever the hospitable host.

Derek was seconds away from declining, as Spartans can carry most of what they need, but a thought struck him. He thought of a slave with more spark and dignity than most freedmen. A boy with more moles than there were stars in the sky, more pink in his cheeks than any poppy planted by Zeus.

“I do have a request, if you’d be so gracious.” He smiled a dark little twist. “A slave.” 

“Of course. We have plenty of quality slaves, my King. I can have one outside your chambers before you arrive there.” 

“I have one in mind.”

x

“And Gods, the way he looked at you! I feared he would lop your head off!”

Scott hadn’t stopped ranting since their return home. Stiles didn’t answer, or even lift his head. He stared at the dough caked between his fingers as he kneaded furiously. [Derek. Derek Hale. King Derek Hale.] That godforsaken name wouldn’t leave him. It rolled around his head like loose stones in the back of an empty cart taking too sharp turns. The way he looked at him like, like he were the most interesting thing to breathe! It made his chest stutter, he hated it. 

“Was he even hurt? He didn’t seem hurt! I don’t believe that Persian landed a single blow!” 

Unlike Scott, Deaton hadn’t said much at all. He asked if Stiles was alright, if the King had threatened him, but left it well alone after that. Unfortunately, Stiles wasn’t blind to the concerned glances that came like clockwork. He couldn’t so much as wrinkle his nose without Deaton reaching for a hanky. He flattened the dough with tightly balled fists. It relieved a bit of tension from his shoulders.

“Have you met him before? Why else would he - I - Surely you would tell me if you’d met the King of - Gods! - of Sparta!” 

Stiles sighed. He just wanted to sleep deeply and dreamlessly. He didn’t have any answers, and for once, he didn’t plan on seeking them out. As far as he was concerned, King Hale was a best forgotten memory. Those tan mountains and subtle, liquid promises had no place in his life. He didn’t want them. He glared accusingly at the dough. 

“What kind of King - !”

A loud, slow banging on the outer doors interrupted Scott’s fevered rant. He shouted and threw a hand over his thumping breast. Stiles jumped a little himself. They met eyes across the room. More shattering blows to their courtyard doors had Stiles on his feet. He scampered into the yard and yanked open the doors. Deaton was padding down the staircase behind him. Upon seeing two of the city guard, Stiles frowned. “You’ve woken my Master, what is it?” They could take his head for such rudeness, but Stiles couldn’t find the energy to care. They took stock of him, as dry and unimpressed as could be. “Is this the house of Deaton?” One asked, Stiles couldn’t tell which. Deaton stood at his back.

“It is.” He answered softly. “What is this regarding?” 

“One of your slaves. We’ve been ordered to gather him.” They looked at him then. “The one called Stiles.” 

Stiles whitened. He felt his Master go still behind him. 

“I - I haven’t done anything wrong!” He defended immediately. Deaton laid a hand on his shoulder, which he only now realized was shaking. “I’m afraid I’ll need a very good explanation before I allow you to take my property.”

“We know nothing more than our orders. Pericles gave this order himself. You will be compensated.” 

They stepped forward. Stiles shrunk back. “No! This isn’t - !” He was yanked from safety, as both men took him by his biceps. “Let go!” He squirmed, but to no avail. Their hands were tight around his arms, too tight. He was trapped between them, and their plating was cold against the naked parts of him. Deaton reached out desperately. “Sirs, wait, please! This must be some mistake, let me speak to the council!” 

Scott flailed behind Deaton, peering over his shoulder and trying to squeeze past. “Stiles!” Deaton held him back. His face was so unsure, more unsure than Stiles could remember seeing him. Deaton was always sure. “Stiles, what is going on?” He sounded scared, terrified, for Stiles. Stiles wanted to cry, because Gods, he didn’t know! “Go inside, Scott!” Scott didn’t need to see this. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” He lied unconvincingly. 

Without a parting word, the guardsmen turned and begun a hard march. Stiles jostled betwixt them. He could hear Scott shouting, Deaton frantically shushing him. His heart was stuck in his throat. Panic was an acrid taste on the back of his tongue. Their hands were vices around his upper arms, and he could feel bruises setting in purple. He dug his toes in the ground, trying to slow them. They didn’t notice. “Will you let go of me? I haven’t done a single thing, you do not need to drag me through the streets like a prisoner of war.” He gritted out and jerked his arms down. 

“Cease your struggles.” One said, Stiles thought maybe the one on the right. For the sake of being difficult, he kicked his legs up. Then, as he was feeling particularly rebellious, he sunk his teeth into one of their easily accessible wrists. He bit hard enough that coppery blood splattered his teeth. The right guard, definitely the right one, shouted some indiscernible obscenity and wrenched his wrist from Stiles’ mouth. “You little - !” 

A flurry of hands and elbows had him down for the count. Stiles lay on his back, sand catching in his hair. He traced out the lines of Ophiuchus in the stars, eyes blown, and tasted the blood staining his front teeth. Fingers dug into his neck, and all the stars left the sky. 

x

When Stiles awoke, he was freshly bathed and wearing unfamiliar silk. He smelled like actual soap. His bruises were wrapped and hidden from view. He felt softer. He was in a big bed, warmed by his body heat. It was so much bigger and warmer than any bed he’d ever lain in. The sheets were malachite green, and the multitude of pillows [too many for one head] were a matching shade. His head was sunken deep in their feathery depths, and his vision obscured by green, green, green. Despite the comfortable circumstances, Stiles was toeing the line of hysterics.

He sat up, the sheets and blankets falling away one layer at a time. The room was huge and much too nice for the likes of him. Indian rugs spanned the floor and silk drapes spilled down the walls, pooling at the square base of ribbed pillars. Stiles didn't feel right sitting in the middle of blatant grandeur. It wasn't meant for him; it wasn’t home. It wasn’t straw floors dirtying his feet or the lumpy bedding that left his back pleasantly sore every morning. He crawled to the edge of the bed and stood on wobbly legs. He looked down at himself and made a deeply offended noise. The silk garb he wore was short. So short, it barely brushed the tops of his thighs. Blushing madly, he tried tugging it down. It refused to stretch. 

Chewing his bottom lip raw, he looked for a way out. He had no desire to be here, wherever here was. In plain view, a set of tall doors beckoned him. He eyed them nervously. Anything could be beyond those doors. Hurtful things, maybe the same guard he took a bite out of earlier. Or an empty corridor, and that thought filled his ears with sweet whispers of freedom. He padded across the room, the rug delightfully grating under his soles, and reached for the handles. Just as he had both palms pressed to the underside of cool copper, he felt a click. His heart jumped into his throat. 

He reared back, withdrawing several steps. The doors swished open. He looked around for nothing and everything, frantic to put something physical between himself and whoever. 

In stepped the King, and Stiles made this sound like a warbler choking on its own song. He preferred the two guards with a penchant for strangulation to King Hale and his enigmatics. He fumbled for purchase against a near desk. Because no, he didn’t deserve the Gods’ wrath. He was good, he was! “No - I - You...” Words completely abandoned him. Stiles was normally very good with words, he needed them. Words were his everything. “Why am I here?” He managed to summon a respectable bit of indignation.

Derek closed the door behind him. He looked at Stiles with an indescribable expression on his face, Stiles couldn’t decide if it was even an expression at all. His eyes were dark, like pitch. Stiles could barely make out the green, and that really unnerved him. Those black pits raked over him in tedious inches, pausing on his bare thighs. Stiles flushed and viciously pulled on the obscenely short chiton. He held it in place; the fabric bunched in his fists. Derek smiled, but it didn’t make him look anymore friendly.

“I asked you a question!” He snapped. His patience gone, his fear shoved into a mental box. 

“You seem intelligent.” Derek started, whilst absently shrugging out of his tunic. It fluttered to the rug, a splash of wrinkled red midst blue and purple patterning. Stiles blinked at the impromptu compliment. 

“You truly don’t know? You have no ideas?” He tapped his forefinger to his temple, and Stiles knew he was being mocked. 

He laughed. It was harsh and guttural. “No, I do not. I haven’t the barest idea why I was forcibly taken from my home, my family. Why I was beaten unconscious in the road, why I woke in this despicable room, or why you, of all people? You are a King, the King of Sparta. You must have more important dealings, crises to exploit, wars to win. Why bother with me at all? Do you have so much time on your hands, you’ve decided to toy with some slave in your spare hours?” He spat in one, powerful breath. His chest heaved. Stiles was more furious than he could ever remember being. His blood was so hot in his skin.

The King looked harder. His jaw visibly jumped. He took big steps towards Stiles, and Stiles, feeling stupidly brave, held his ground. The King was close enough to smell [faint sweat, earth, a pungent musk]. He smelled of toil and callouses, living and winning by the salty beads of his own brow. Stiles instantly liked it. He wondered what he smelled like, and if the King could smell him too. Nerves begun to get the best of him.

“You know my name, where I come from, yet you still say so much.” He said lowly, crowding Stiles into the long desk. “Do you know fear?” His palms slapped the desk on either side of Stiles. He was trapped. Stiles did know fear, they shared an ugly past. He and fear never got on well. As Derek breathed into him, their fronts meeting intimately, Stiles found fear again. He turned his face away and glared at an oil painting on the far wall. It was a smeared rendering of Athena. Her cheekbones were fine and pink between the gold twists of her hair. He held his breath and let it out hurriedly.

“I will not apologize to you, my King.” 

Derek laughed. He brushed his nose along the barred chords of his throat. “I’m glad.” 

Stiles felt wet lips in the shallow dip of his collarbone, hands burning into his outer thighs. He stiffened. “I - don’t - !”

“I saw you in the market. You weren’t afraid, just curious. I thought, ‘too beautiful to be a slave.’ But you’re more than what you seem to be, aren’t you, Stiles?” Teeth were sharp in the meat of his shoulder. “You aren’t a simple slave. You have pride, and that’s a little unheard of. Then you were watching me as I fought. You couldn’t look away, could you?”

Stiles was suddenly lifted off his feet and propped on the desk like a wheat doll. Derek pushed between his legs. A high, chittery noise escaped him.

“I remember the way you looked between my legs, like you belonged - ”

“Stop it! I - don’t say such things!” Stiles squirmed. Fury and mortification colored him stark red. He scrambled for purchase on broad shoulders, shoving with all his inconsiderable might. “I will not be your whore!” He hissed. Derek rocked into him harshly. Stiles nearly bit his tongue in two. His spine snapped inwards wantonly. He was starting to grasp the direness of his situation. His gut clenched. He gasped, because he couldn’t really breathe. He was better than this. He didn’t want these affections.

Derek pulled back to meet his eyes. “We’ll see.” 

x


	2. I'll Take It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles makes his grand attempt at escape and meets several, new faces on the way. Predictably, he doesn't make it far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 8/27/2015
> 
> Enjoy!

Edited: 8/26/2015

Enjoy!

x

Stiles had to wonder when his life veered off the beaten path, or why he was unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of these specific attentions. His arms were crossed in front of himself, pushing ineffectually against the marble slab of man between his legs. His face was captured in the vee of a big hand, fingers dug into his cheeks. While no stranger to the act of pederasty, not once had he imagined himself in such a relationship, if it could even be called so. The King dragged his open mouth down Stiles’ throat, leaving the ghosts of his teeth in straining chords. His jaw was dark with the beginnings of a beard, and the stiff bristles scraped Stiles unrelentingly. 

“Stop it!” He barked, scooting back on the desk. An inkwell tipped over, and he could feel jet wetness pooling under him. The King wrenched him back, not as though he had much hope of getting anywhere. “You’re very willful, for a slave.” He murmured against the side of Stiles’ mouth. His breath was hot, and his hips ceaseless in their undulation. 

“You’re an utter pig, for a King.” Stiles gritted out. “Allowing yourself to be ruled by your quests for sexual gratification, a little shameful, isn’t it?” 

The King snorted in his ear. “You understand nothing of what goes into an honest kingship. With all I do and will continue to do, I’ve earned the right to seek my sexual gratification in the spare moments afforded to me.” He said all this between light, nippy kisses. “I cannot fathom what makes you so reluctant to share my bed.” He brought their unwilling, but nevertheless shared, excitement together with a snap of his hips. “You desire me, this.”

Stiles choked on a moan, unwilling to let it be heard. “My body does not desire the same things as I.” 

As inconspicuously as he could, he felt behind himself for anything heavy and grabbable. He didn’t let himself think about the consequences of even slightly bruising a King, only his virtue that was under threat of being forcibly taken. His knuckles knocked against the swelled bottom of a vase, and he awkwardly took it in hand. Steeling himself, he raised his arm. As he brought his makeshift armament down, the King caught his wrist without bothering to lift his head. The vase was jarred from his damp hold, and it smashed against the floor. The King met his eyes, brow firmly raised. Stiles snarled at the look of blatant amusement. “You - !”

There was a knock at the door. Neither looked away, but the horrible tension seemed to abate for a minute. After a second series of knocks, the King very reluctantly backed off. He stepped over big shards of broken vase and crossed the room in a lackadaisical sort of way. His general apathy and looseness only served to further boil Stiles’ blood. With a huff, he hopped from the desk and aggressively smoothed himself out. The sides of his thighs were sticky with ink. The door groaned mutely as it was manhandled open, and Stiles’ balked at the appearance of unfamiliar Spartans. Likewise, they paused at the sight of him. They took him in appraisingly, and he felt the urge to turn away. 

There were two of them. They were intimidating: both brawny and beautiful. Stiles only caught a short glimpse, enough to make him feel small and jealous, before Derek moved to stand in the threshold. The lines of his back were tense, Stiles could see that much from across the room. They spoke quietly for a bit, then Derek turned to address him. “Guards will be posted outside these doors, do not bother entertaining thoughts of escape. I will return shortly.” He stepped into the hall and shut the doors behind him. 

Stiles took his parting words as more of a loose suggestion left to interpretation, rather than the absolute command it probably was. 

x

His escape was a great embarrassment to those in charge of preventing it. It was a simple plan, and the only harm done in executing it was to an unfortunately colored pot -- like bad gruel Deaton used to concoct. He threw it against the far wall [-loud screech of exploding clayware-] and awaited the harried entrance of his guards. He huddled in the broad shadows of the door as it was flung open. They looked all around the room, though not bothering to glance over their shoulders, and he crept into the unguarded corridor during their moments of inattention. He didn’t spend a great many seconds deliberating left or right, he just went [right]. The corridor was long, wide, and faintly lit. It branched off into similarly spanning halls and the occasional open chamber. 

The furnishings were ornate, the overtones generally lavish -- all the makings of an estate. Stiles was unlucky enough to be totally unfamiliar with this particular den of aristocracy. He didn’t know where he was going, and his guards had surely noticed the lack of Stiles in the room by now. He mumbled a curse or three. As he was too antsy to be properly cautious, he rounded a corner with all the force and velocity of a freshly branded pony stampeding on her impromptu tormentors. He smacked into a pair of soft bodies. It was an awkward collision, with no one quite falling, but everyone rushing to right themselves and each other. 

Stiles was horrified to see the shiny apple of Scott’s eye, fair Allison, and her equally fair companion, Lydia. They looked just as shocked to see him, and rightly so. His appearance was questionable and ruffled, his dress grossly improper. He tugged at the stained hemming of his chiton, desperately trying to make it stretch. “Forgive me!” He bowed deeply at the waist, his face all but nestled between his knees. “I was not aware of myself, you have my sincerest apologies.” He sounded strained to his own ears.

“I - it’s...quite alright. Please, stand.” Allison beckoned him. She sounded as uncomfortable as he felt. He slowly straightened. They looked him up and down, and he did his best not to fidget outright. Allison was one to bare her heart plainly, as concern and innocent confusion were easily read in the bare wrinkle of her brow and pucker of her lips. Lydia was a more shuttered presence. She frowned, mistrustful, and that was all Stiles could pick up from her. “I sincerely hope you have good reason for parading about in such a state.” She said crisply. Allison knocked shoulders with her, as if saying “play nice”. 

Stiles floundered for that good reason. He got the feeling it would have to be very good. “I - yes. My Master has requested I find more ink, as I’ve -” He gestured lamely at himself. “- spilt it.” 

Allison nodded sympathetically. “And your Master, he is...?” 

“Laconian, yes.” He admitted. He silently willed them to accept this answer, despite its suspicious simplicity. 

Lydia folded her arms over her chest. “I imagine you’ve lost your way.” She said this in a tone that implied he wasn’t the first hopeless case to lose their way since the week’s beginning and wouldn’t be the last. He was both surprised and grateful at the lack of a more thorough interrogation. Lydia seemed naturally interrogative [intrusive]. 

“I imagine I have.” He laughed weakly. “This place is rather vast, almost like a labyrinth.” 

By that point, Stiles was able to deduce an impressive bit. This was the Argents’ estate, which made sense. The Argents were great in number, more so than other powerful houses, and required a big enough estate to house them all. However, they had more empty rooms than occupied ones. Their grounds were sprawling and free of nonsensical shrubbery, perfect for a small army to make camp. With their plentitude of vacancy, the Argents’ were an obvious candidate for housing prestigious guests. 

Allison smiled sheepishly. “We have more room than we know what to do with, it’s a little absurd.” 

Stiles kind of understood what made Scott so crazy and pathetic for this girl. He wanted to return her kind expression, but couldn’t. He came back to himself suddenly. He was running, he needed to go. He cleared his throat. “If you could...point me in the right direction?” 

Allison beamed at him. “I have a spare well in my chambers, actually.”

Stiles felt his heart promptly plummet, dissolving in the gurgling pit that was his stomach. He pasted on a queasy smile. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you, my ladies.” 

Lydia was studying him. Her gaze was sharp enough to leave thin cuts on his psyche, searching enough to peel his skins back in tiny triangles. “It’s no inconvenience, we have nowhere to be.” She assured him. In that moment, Stiles both loathed and respected Lydia; she was preventing his escape, but clever enough to know something needed preventing. It seemed he had little choice, and even so, he had no desire to continue standing idly. He hesitantly agreed, and they set off down a left hand corridor. It was opposite the direction he came from, Stiles noticed with strong relief.

Their journey was a short one, but that didn’t stop Lydia from nearly scenting out his secrets. She twisted her hair into strawberry coils. “You have a name, don’t you?” She snipped. Stiles wasn’t expecting that question. He fumbled for a name to give, one that wouldn’t sound totally awkward when associated with his face. “My name - I’m...Scott.” He cringed and kicked himself for picking such an uncomplimentary alias. He and Scott were as different as two people could be. It’d be strange to suddenly start answering to that name after hearing and ignoring it most of his life. 

Lydia made a face. “It doesn’t suit you.” 

Allison tsked at her in playful reproach. “Lydia, please.” She turned to Stiles with a small but beautiful grin. “I quite like that name. It’s...different, but in a good way.” 

Stiles laughed to himself. Gods, wait until he told Scott! Then he remembered where he was, why he was here. He was a captive in this place, now an escapee. He could be discovered at any moment. Considering how little planning went into this feeble attempt at escape, he probably would be. Derek could have him imprisoned or killed for his repeated disobedience and unwillingness to bend over and grab ankle. He might not make it back to Scott. He promptly sobered up. “Thank you, my lady.” He answered a little gruffly. Again, Lydia’s eyes were sharp on him. 

Allison’s room was similar to Derek’s in its grandeur, but different in how lived in and personal it felt. Despite just hovering in the doorway, Stiles felt like an invader. While Allison was oblivious to his discomfort, Lydia seemed wholly privy to all the small blips and nuances of what he was feeling. It was unnerving in a way Stiles had never experienced. Fortunately, Allison was quick in procuring his ink. She held it up triumphantly. He was so happy to see the little well, he almost forgot he didn’t really need it. She brought it to him, and he took it with a gracious bow. “Thank you. I’m in your debt, my lady.”

She rolled her hand dismissively. “Please, it was my pleasure. I’ve lived here for as long as I can remember, and I still manage to lose my way from time to time.” 

A sweet laugh sounded just behind Stiles, he could feel breath gathering at the backs of his ears. He yelped and scuttled a step or three forward. He turned to see a woman. She could be their human Athena, with her gold tumbles of hair and distinctly symmetrical beauty, stepped out from an oil rendering. White silk clung to her hedonically full body, and silver bands clinked around her dainty wrist. She was stunning, in a word, but there was something else. Her red smile was twisted just so, and her eyes lacked natural brightness. She was off, crooked in a way Stiles couldn’t explain. 

“I’m afraid you’re sense of direction has never been outstanding, my dove.” She teased. She grinned in a way that wrinkled her nose cutely. Allison returned her quip with something just as teasing and familiar. Stiles learned her name was Kate, Allison’s favorite aunt, but that did nothing to lighten the hardening ball of dread sitting in his gut. When that terribly icy stare alighted on him, Stiles had to choke back feelings of nausea. She took the whole of him in, from the tips of his clenching toes to the unruly ends of his hair. Subtle, dark appreciation eased into the corners of her face. “Who is this lost, little thing?” She cooed. 

Stiles felt sick. If he opened his mouth, he feared nothing coherent would come out. Lydia must have sensed that, because she answered for him. “Scott, a slave to one of the Laconian men. Allison was kind enough to aid him in his heroic quest for a new well of ink.”

Stiles got the impression Lydia trusted Kate very little, if at all. Bless her, she was trying to throw Kate off his admittedly suspicious scent. She must’ve noticed it too, the utter wrongness of this Argent. His grudging respect for Lydia escalated into something just shy of devout worship. Unfortunately, Kate possessed her own impressive powers of perception. “Scott.” She tasted the name as she said it, and immediately decided she didn’t like the taste. “That doesn’t sound right at all.” 

Stiles tried to keep from fidgeting. He kept his eyes on the floor. “I wasn’t responsible for choosing it, my lady.” His shaky lie was accompanied by a hiccup of nervous laughter. Kate smiled a chilly thing. “I suppose not.” She took several steps forward. “Won’t you look at me?” She murmured, and she sounded way too close. Stiles did as asked. They engaged in a brief staring contest in which Stiles frantically grappled with his last bits of composure. 

“I must say, Scott, you’re unnaturally pretty.” She cut meaningful eyes at his clothing, or lack thereof. In a somewhat lower tone, she said, “I hope your Master treats you well. With skin so white, you must bruise beautifully. ” 

Stiles flushed to the roots of his hair. He didn’t have an appropriate response for that, one that wouldn’t see him beheaded, so he just nodded. She stepped away, visibly satisfied with this tidbit of unscheduled, psychological torment, and Stiles was immediately grateful. The room felt stifled and airless with her in it, or it did to Stiles. Allison looked confused and a little unnerved, Lydia looked to be puzzling everything out. Kate grinned broadly at the three of them. “Well, I have preparations to oversee. Victoria and I certainly have our work cut out for us, if we want to enjoy a half - decent feast this coming evening.”

She turned to go. Before Stiles could feel any measure of relief, she paused. “Before I take my leave, might I ask that you keep an eye out? It seems we have another lost pup scampering about. King Hale surely has a taste for blatant rebellion, as his own slave is making an attempt at escape. Alert the guards if you see anything of suspect.” She made pointed, prolonged eye - contact with Stiles. He actively struggled not to suffocate on his own inhalations, because - because - she knew! He managed a jerky nod. 

She left, but there was no welcome rush of relief. Lydia’s stare was like a brand pressed to the side of his face. She knew too, she was too clever not to know.

“Try not take her so seriously. My aunt can be...abrasive, at times.” Allison apologized, because Kate never would. Stiles cleared his throat of its sudden thickness. “It’s of no consequence. It isn’t my place to feel offense.” He shrugged limp shoulders. “Ah, if you might...point me in the way of the camps...? If left to my own wanderings, I’m certain to embarrass myself more than I already have.” 

Lydia was quick to offer her assistance [“I might as well show you the way, your sense of direction is poor enough to rival Allison’s.” - “Hey!”], and Stiles wanted so badly to turn her down. Lydia had proven herself as unpredictable as his Spartan captor, and Stiles didn’t need her unpredictability or enigmatics. He just needed to get out! However, getting out would prove a chore without some direction or guide, and he didn’t want to cause offense by declining her ‘gracious’ offer of guidance. He reluctantly agreed. She swept him from the room with brusque swishes of her arms. 

At first, nothing was said. They walked, Lydia a proper step ahead of Stiles, in stiff silence. It was more disconcerting than if she had launched into an interrogation or threatened to find the nearest band of guards. Stiles waited for the inevitable series of accusations, but they never came. Instead, she quietly asked, “What’s your name?”

“I already - ”

“That is not your name, and frankly, it was a poor choice of alias.” 

Stiles had the good graces to feel embarrassed. “Stiles, that’s what they call me.”

She tilted her head, curious. “Stiles? Very strange, but also...fitting. It sounds good on you.”

Stiles gawped at the trickle of copper coils wisping down her back, a hidden network of golden leaves and silk webbing interwoven in the strands. Even from the vast distances that separated them in markets and holy places, Stiles used to see the cunning and wry devilishness in the little things she did. Lydia was nobody’s fool, while most women were fool to everyone. It was a sad truth associated with the fairer sex, especially those belonging to the upper classes. Women did little more than marry, bear a number of children, and prepare their daughters to marry and their sons to later rule them. They seldom left their homes unless on the arm of a presiding man, and even then, rarely.

Stiles couldn’t [wouldn’t] live like that. He was grateful for his irrefutable masculinity and demeaning social status. Not many were in the habit of scrutinizing what a slave does or doesn’t do. He wasn’t expected to marry into greater wealth and social splendor, as Lydia and Allison were deigned to do. 

He knew the both of them were already engaged. Allison was to marry the youngest son of Daehler, an introverted and whimsical painter named Matthew. While he was more inclined to chase stratospherical dreams and stalk through meadows searching frantically for the perfect color palette, the rest of his family had heads for business. Daehler was an infamous name whispered in westwardly traveling caravans and Chinese shops. Lydia was betrothed to a fisherman Stiles never bothered to learn the name of. 

“So, Stiles, what has possessed you to embark on this suicidal mission of escape?” She asked pleasantly, rousing him from his musings. He jerked at the question. 

“Nothing is...possessing me, exactly. King Hale can think what he likes, but he isn’t my Master. He had me taken from my home, and I intend to get back.” He said matter of factly, but tiny beads of emotion managed to seep through the thinness of his voice. Lydia hummed. 

“What happens then, when you get back? Won’t that be the first place they look for you?” 

Truth be told, he hadn’t thought that far ahead. A small part of him, the loud minority, didn’t think he would make it that far. He expected to get caught sooner, not later. As is the case with loud minorities, rational thinking and general consensus usually go unheard in their company. His previous optimism in the face of this unthinkable situation were starting to lose volume. “I’ll figure it out.” He murmured. Lydia glanced back at him, unconvinced. “I hope you do so quickly.”

Stiles took in her elegant lines, and another question came to mind. “Why are you doing this, for me? Why haven’t you alerted the guards?” 

The silence was ponderous this time. “I quite like you, Stiles.” She finally said. “I’d say you’re like...a character in a story, a story I’ve heard a thousand times, though I never noticed you. I can’t say why, but now that I have, I want you to succeed. You’re the nondescript character that creeps up on the audience, and eventually, they fall in love with you.” She ducked her head and laughed, like she thought it was a silly comparison. Stiles fumbled for something to say. His chest tightened pleasantly, as that was definitely the most eloquent compliment he’d ever received. 

He thought of Teucer, persevering even after Hector retired him from taking out whole legions of Trojan men. Zeus snapped his bow in two, and if that wasn’t a sign to give up, what was? He didn’t though. Teucer didn’t know how to give up, and that made Stiles feel a little better.

“It’s ironic, I should be the one paying you such a compliment. Though, to me, you’ve always been an easily recognizable character, even when we were young and you were just a face. Just...you stuck out, in a good way.” He admitted awkwardly. Lydia snuffled another laugh. He almost laughed himself, but she was suddenly stopping in front of him. He came to stand at her side. They stood at the edge of marble flooring, a short length of stairs fattening at their feet. Crisp air and tall grasses licked at the bottom step. Stiles could feel the sweet pecks of freedom, little breezes fluttering through him, prickling and pinkening his flesh. Butterflies filled his stomach.

He cast his eyes out, and those butterflies were easily replaced by big rocks [each shaped more harshly than the last, ripping holes in his innards]. A daunting, lumpy sea of Spartan red and firelight warbled between him and his freedom. A hundred something Laconians spanned the grounds. Most had erected crude tents, like a small slum or marketplace, while some simply arranged themselves around modest fire pits on cooling earth. He’d forgotten about the obligatory army accompanying their King. He cursed none too quietly. 

Lydia frowned. Whether out of concern or sympathy, he couldn’t tell. “You should find something to wear, something less...conspicuous.” She suggested. 

He looked down at himself. “That might prove a challenge.” He swallowed, and his throat was starting to hurt from doing it so much. He was getting scared and panicky again. Lydia curled fingers around his wrist and took the inkwell from his slackening grip. She pressed the pads of her fingers against the soft, inner skin there, feeling the crazed jumps of his pulse. “You need to be calm. I want you to make it back, Stiles, and you won’t make it back if you’re too afraid to take a step.”

Stiles took several breaths and nodded rapidly. “Yes, I - yes. I can do this, can’t I?” 

Lydia offered no reassurances. She stepped back. “I’m afraid this is where I leave you.” 

He wanted to snatch her back and beg her to do this with him, but he wouldn’t. She’d done enough. He straightened himself, squeezing every inch of height from his spine, and nodded firmly. She whispered wishes of luck and left him to his escape. He sucked in a mouthful of cold air and dug deep for his usual brand of satirical boldness. It was still there, just buried under heaps of anxiety and potential panic attacks. Armed with little more than cunning, he went for it. He padded down the white steps, shivering at the cold seeping through his soles, and dove for the sparse treeline. As much as he wanted to keep hidden in nature’s protective veil, there just wasn’t enough of it. The trees thinned into bushes, the bushes into ankle - high grass. 

He would have to duck between the tents, keeping very low. Though much like the trees, there were open spaces between the tents that left him exposed. Lydia was right, he would need new clothing if he had any chance of going unnoticed. The question now, where in all of Olympia was he supposed to find, let alone take, something modest to wear? Spartans were by no means shy about their bodies, they wore virtually nothing outside of the standard plating and leatherware. Hopelessness was taking hold, and Stiles didn’t need that. He didn’t need to feel hopeless. 

His hands were curled up so tightly, they shook at his sides. He didn’t need to overthink, he just needed to do. He made for the nearest society of tents. Stiles counted six of them. They sat side by side like nomadic neighbors and provided him a welcome stretch of cover. In a low crouch, he scurried along their misshapen backs. Their red fabric flapped disconcertingly with every small rush of wind. The last tent was much bigger than the preceding five; it loomed tall like a sentinel tower. Stiles noticed a narrow split in its outer skin. Carefully peeling the ripped fabric apart, he peered inside. 

It was cramped, but the ceiling reached higher than what you’d expect of a mere tent. A grown man could stand comfortably without rubbing his head against slanted oilcloth. There was a long bedroll strewn in the corner, and a miniature desk set up in the successive corner. It was obviously meant for travel. Three stools crowded around it. A lone scroll laid open and puckered on the desktop, unintelligible scribbles marring its white face. The waning incandescence of dying candlelight cast waltzing shapes all about. 

The owner of this tent seemed more prone to materialism than the average Laconian. All the better for Stiles, as there was a greater chance of finding some spare clothing he could borrow [steal]. He managed to fit himself into the preexisting split without further tearing it. As he searched the contents of the tiny room, taking care not to move or break anything, he kept an ear out for the telltale sounds of movement outside. It was hard to discern one sound from another, as laughter and inarticulate shouting was a constant white noise. 

Finally, he discovered a cloak sitting in a neat fold at the bottom of an open travel bag. “Yes!” He cheered softly, and his whole face contorted around the word. He pulled it from the bag and whipped it into straightness. A brief inspection showed it was large enough for him to swim/drown in. Oversized it might be, but he was left with few to no options. He stood and pulled it around his shoulders. As he wrestled with the clasp, the door flaps were shoved apart. 

“Well, hello.” 

Stiles jerked hard enough to pinch a nerve. “Oh - my Gods!” 

Behind him stood an honest fox of a man; the spirit of mischief inhabiting a human suit. He was taller than Stiles, though not by much, and paradoxically thick. He had definite brawn, but looked like he shouldn’t. His dark hair was combed and styled with palpable care, his jaw warmed by a neat beard. The clean cut of his brow was raised just so, giving off a fixed look of condescension. Serene puddles glinted at him in place of eyeballs [they were so absurdly blue]. He wore a surprised smile. 

Before they could further appraise one another, two more joined them in the tent. Stiles recognized them as the Spartans who’d interrupted he and the King earlier that evening. They had his unspoken thanks. He blurted the first thing that came to mind. “This isn’t what it looks like.” Instead of dropping the cloak, he clutched it tighter to himself. It was pointless to hold onto it, seeing as he’d already been caught, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. The foxly one chuckled. “Oh? It looks like you’re stealing my cloak.”

“Borrowing.” He immediately defended. 

He chuckled harder, showing off rows of arrantly straight teeth. “I can’t say I mind, it looks far better on you than it ever did on me.” He purred, and that was almost enough to make Stiles abandon the safety of the cloak. 

One of the two Spartans piped up, the curly - headed one. “You’re the King’s new...slave, how did you...? He gave you the order to stay put.” His pause mid - sentence let Stiles know what he really thought, what they all probably thought of him. He grit his teeth against the building tirade.

“He can waste as much breath as he pleases in giving me orders. I am neither his slave, nor his whore. Hence my current attempt at escape.” He snarked, and Zeus be damned, he shouldn’t of said that. This earned him looks of bewilderment and incredulity. The foxly one was the first to respond, and Stiles couldn’t say that surprised him. “Well, if you won’t play slave to our King, I have a current vacancy I’m looking to fill.” He grinned wickedly. 

“Shut your hole, Peter.” The square - jawed one grunted. Stiles noted the way he cradled his right hand to his breast and the red wetness seeping from the cracks of his fist like he was crushing a tomato. His cheek muscles jumped a little. He looked at Stiles, devoid of any sympathy. “You’re going back.” He said.

“And you’re bleeding all over yourself.” Stiles couldn’t help but point out. “Will you be the one to take me back? Because frankly, the only thing you look capable of doing right now is fainting from blood loss.” 

Square - jaw snapped his teeth in open hostility. Peter, defying one stereotype after another by operating on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum as his Spartan fellows, laughed hard enough to break something internally. “Oh, let’s keep him. Derek doesn’t need to know.” 

Square - jaw took an angry step forward, making Stiles take an involuntary step back. He held up his hurt hand and shook it pointedly. His palm was split diagonally by a deep gash, and the corners of his ripped flesh curled like rolled parchment. Blood flowed from him freely and copiously, his forearm becoming encased in a macabre sleeve. It was a gruesome thing to behold, and Stiles silently commended him for keeping so composed. “I’m going to wrap this, then I will personally escort you back to your chambers.” He promised through jarring spells of breath. 

Stiles frowned and said, “You’re going to need more than a wrap.”

No one could say exactly how or when, but Stiles was suddenly in charge and lording over them. He had Jackson [aka. jaws and temper] seated on one of the miniature stools, Isaac [aka. curls and naiveté] tracking down fresh water and wine in equal amounts, and Peter [whom Stiles didn’t care to dwell on] fishing for his modest collection of bone needles and wool thread in the recesses of his bag. Once the aforementioned materials had been gathered, he set to work patching Jackson up properly. Stiles couldn’t say what possessed him to do it, he just...he couldn’t help himself. Jackson was bleeding all over himself, and Stiles could do something about it.

He ripped up the willowy neckline of his chiton, and while this left him dangerously close to nudity, he managed to salvage five strips of cloth in doing so. He mopped up the excess blood swelling in and around the wound, all while checking for any foreign matter that might lead to later infection. Once satisfied, he sterilized the big split with several splashes of wine. Jackson hissed, and Stiles took quiet satisfaction in his discomfort. Their eyes were unbearably hot on him as he worked. “How did you manage to do this?” He asked, a little desperate for conversation. 

Jackson scoffed, but said nothing. Isaac was all too happy to fill in the blanks. “He can’t handle his own blade, he cut himself open while sharpening it.” 

Jackson snarled. “If you hadn’t - !” 

“Now, boys.” Peter soothed. “Let’s not be ugly in front of our guest.”

They quieted, strangely enough. He tried not to think about it. He popped the bone needle through the curled bit of flesh closest to himself. He hadn’t sutured many serious lacerations in his apprenticeship under Deaton, but he felt he was doing a more than adequate job. “It’s okay.” He muttered. “It makes you seem less intimidating when you argue like that.” 

Heady silence descended again. Stiles was able to ignore it, sinking into the task at hand [pun probably intended]. He pulled the thread home and dabbed up escaped, ruby rivulets. It became mindless after a while. Pop, tug, pull.

“Why are you doing this?” Jackson asked in a crackle. Stiles wasn’t overly shocked by the question. 

He shrugged halfheartedly. “Because I’m able to.” He came to a stopping point. After zig zagging his way to the top of the closed split, he tied off with a tight knot. He snapped the excess thread with a sharp tug of teeth and used the remaining silk strip as a makeshift bandage. “Please do not tear these.” He deadpanned. The three of them were staring him down with their individual everything, and he couldn’t tell what anyone was thinking. Of course, then, he remembered he was supposed to be escaping, running, getting away.

“We have to take you back.” Isaac wouldn’t look him in the eye. Stiles nodded, because yes, he anticipated that much. 

“I know, but I’ll fight you.” He assured them. 

“I’d expect nothing less.” Of course Derek was there, holding the flaps apart. His face was this hard, stiff, horribly flat surface. There were no hidden dimensions or little ticks in the corners of his mouth to give him away. How long - how long had he been there? Stiles made a high, choked noise. He jumped to his feet and backpedaled a few steps, because he didn’t know what else to do. Peter’s cloak, as it was still unclasped, slipped from his shoulders. Derek seemed to harden at the sight of it. He met the eyes of his men one at a time. “Get out.” 

“Now, Derek - “ Peter began placatingly. 

“Out.” Derek barked. 

Stiles was left with short, reluctant glances and a sickly mixture of fear and regret brewing in his stomach. Derek approached him like a predator trapping its meal. He only stopped when they shared air. Stiles was more disappointed than anything. His untimely end could’ve been avoided. He shouldn’t of stopped or stepped into an unfamiliar tent. He begged Scott to forgive him for not making it back. He wondered when the news of his death might reach Deaton's stoop, if it would at all. “This was very foolish of you.” King Hale told him, before hefting him over his shoulder like he weighed nothing at all. 

Stiles coughed as the breath was shoved from his body. His stomach dented around a stonelike knob of shoulder muscle. It was unpleasant but not painful. Derek walked them, Stiles jingling over his shoulder like a pale decoration, back to their chambers. Stiles considered it a small mercy that they met no one on the way there, aside from the pods of jeering Spartans littering the grounds. The humiliation was more than punishment enough. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his forehead against Derek’s back. 

x

The remainder of the night and all the next day were spent in stiff anticipation of some kind of punishment. Stiles knew something was coming, something had to be coming. Whatever Derek had in mind, he was deliberately putting it off. In making Stiles wait, pretending like he’d forgotten about his daring getaway and continued insolence, he was making it worse. There was now this cruel element of psychological punishment at play that Stiles wasn’t ready for. Anxiety haunted him like a scorned spector. Patience and forgiveness were not common character traits found in the average Laconian, let alone his King. 

Even worse, the King was going out of his way to be clinically polite. He didn’t try to force anything carnal between them as he did before, and it greatly unnerved him. Stiles was even more on guard, waiting to be grabbed from behind and bent in half. His body ached from holding itself so tensely for such a long time, and his eyes were dry and exhausted pits. Sleep was an untouchable fantasy with Derek snuffling at his back [he insist they share a bed, lest Stiles “attempt something”]. It was grossly civil, and Stiles was at a loss.

The following day was one of the most hectic Stiles had ever experienced. From before sunrise to just after dusk, hustle and bustle were commonplace in every hall and chamber. Slaves were like miniature twisters whipping past Stiles and leaving pink lashes on him from where the ends of their braids snapped out. They were scrubbing nonexistent grime from the floors, rolling out tapestries and rugs on the grass and beating clingy motes from their caked threads, balancing baskets full of bedding and armfuls of goblets. The kitchen was a no man’s land, it looked and sounded like war. It was all in preparation for the evening feast, King Hale told him. 

As Derek was a guest, he was free from having to aid in or oversee said preparations. He spent the better part of his day outdoors with his men, and by default, so did Stiles. Quite a few of them recognized him on sight, and the subsequent heckling was nothing short of humiliating. Needless to say, he stuck to Derek’s side like a hungry leech. It was only on the cusp of evening, when the sun drooped tiredly and the King brought them in to wash, that Stiles learned of his punishment. It wasn’t the physical beating he’d been readying himself for, but something entire worlds worse. Derek presented him with a long, colorful, cottony thing. “Put this on.”

He was to be a cupbearer, the King said. Stiles looked at the pretty fabric in his hands, all color draining from him. A cupbearer was just a courtesan armed with wine! He wanted to argue, talk back like his character demanded, but one look from King Hale had him wrestling with the olive fabric behind their three - fold screen. Soon enough, the banquet was upon them. It was a segregated affair, reserved strictly for men with the exception of entertainment, consisting of two parts: the first dedicated to food, generally simple meals, and a second part dedicated to drinking. 

Stiles shifted awkwardly as the andron filled with decrepit, stately men. The long couches bore the weight of all the patriarchy. He adjusted the big jug of wine in his arms, already feeling out of place. He stood behind King Hale, who talked quietly with a lax looking Peter [his uncle, Stiles was disgruntled to discover]. Their host, Christopher Argent, sat one couch over with his father, Gerard. Both men had shown unhealthy interest in Stiles since he’d entered the room, half - hiding behind Derek. To make the matter of his mounting anxiety near unbearable, Pericles was their awaited guest of honor. 

With his arrival, the banquet officially began. Stiles noticed that most men had brought their personal cupbearers. Boys younger than himself shuffled nervously along the opposite wall, cradling jugs similar to his own. Stiles was grateful, as it meant he could stay within the sphere of relative safety Derek provided. Christopher stood and said, “I thank all of you for attending this modest affair, you have honored my family and I with your presence. May Demeter and Dionysus bless this small feast we are about to consume. I encourage you to eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves.” He smiled shortly. 

As dishes were brought in by the armful, Stiles spied Pericles leaning towards Gerard. They shared a few whispered words. Minutes later, they broke apart, their bodies seizing with gruff laughter. Derek saw this too. He frowned hard enough to hurt himself. He raised his goblet, and Stiles hastened over to fill it. “Starting a bit early, sire?” He murmured. Derek cut eyes at him. Peter chuckled and held up his own goblet. Stiles tipped his jug over it, silently relieved to feel it lightening in his hands. 

“Of course, takes my mind off other things I might be doing.” He teased. Stiles blushed at the racy implications. 

“Might I say, you’re quite the vision this evening, Stiles.” Peter leered at him, more mirthful than lusty. Stiles looked down at himself. All he could think of the tasteful chiton was how well it matched Derek’s eyes. He didn’t like it purely for that reason. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed.” He continued quietly. Stiles cringed. He wasn’t unaware of the eyes stuck to him, trailing him, and burning holes through his chiton with a troubling intensity. Derek grunted absently. He took a slow bite of his fried eel [expensive stuff, Stiles wondered what it tasted of]. “Let them look, let them stew in their envy and self - made aphrodisia.” 

Derek was very assured in his possession of Stiles. Stiles should be more bothered by that. He was dredged from his troubled contemplations by the sound of music. Their entertainment for the evening was a group of foreign performers. A scantily clad siren rippled her way into their midst. She belted out a series of high notes that he faintly recognized as an old hymn to the sun. His ears were left ringing. Her mournful lyrics were accompanied by the casual strumming of the lyre and the prolonged rise and fall of the pan pipes. It sounded like sweet mystery and untold stories. Stiles hummed to himself, earning a sly look from Peter. 

Conversations carried on, and Derek was inevitably pulled into them. Pericles was talking animatedly about a dream he’d had some months back. “Atop the acropolis, there’s a temple celebrating our Goddess, Parthenos. It’s more a magnificent erection of art than anything else, and inside sits a grand statue made of gold and ivory. It’s the Goddess Athena, her splendor sheltered from the harshness of nature. It’s a temple of the Doric order with eight columns at the façade, and seventeen columns at the flanks. I’ve envisioned this architectural spectacle many times, I’ve even considered which hands are best to build it. Iktinos and Kallikrates come to mind, as they’re both reputable craftsmen.” He was gushing. 

Christopher looked both intrigued and uncertain. “That sounds like a terribly pricey endeavor.” 

Gerard waved him off, his gnarled hand flopping like a rabbit with a snapped neck. “The world is full of riches, though it could do with more beauty.” 

Derek, ever the social dampener, was unimpressed. “Beauty should be one’s last priority when running a state. The continued safety and wellbeing of citizens does not come cheaply.” 

Peter snorted into his half empty cup, and Stiles was tempted to do the same. Pericles considered him stoically, before cracking an unfriendly smile. “I fear your homeland has made you biased, my King. Beauty is such a rare thing in Laconia, you’re unfamiliar with the power it grants.” He said. Derek was at a loss on how to respond without starting a war unprecedented in its number of casualties. There was no further elaboration on his part, so they turned to other topics. To Stiles, it was altogether bland. He was thankful for the moments when Peter, or even Derek, drew him into childish banter between stray splashes of wine. 

The banquet eventually dwindled down to heavy drinking and snackery. Chestnuts, beans, toasted wheat, and honey cakes were mindlessly consumed, all intended to soak up the alcohol from their blood and prolong the drinking spree. They inaugurated this second half of the festivities with a libation in honor of Dionysus, then they drew their ‘king of the banquet’ [who had the meager privilege of directing the cupbearers as to how strong to mix the wine]. Gerard was chosen. Fortunately/unfortunately [Stiles couldn’t decide], he had a penchant for very pungent wine. 

As the banquet drew to a close, every guest either delirious or close to it, Gerard beckoned Stiles to fill his cup. Stiles looked into the bottom of his seemingly bottomless jug. There was just enough wine to make one more cup. He looked to Derek for permission and silently begged him to refuse. Derek hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor like his fellow gentlepersons, so he was coherent enough to be watchful. He gave Stiles a barely perceptible nod. Swallowing several protests, he waddled across the room on stiff legs. 

Serving Gerard was no party. He was careful not to spill any wine as he poured it. As he emptied his jug of its last drops, Gerard caught his wrist. His grip wasn’t crushing or particularly strong, but Stiles knew better than to shake him off. Fingertips like dried grapes rubbed the inside of his wrist. Gerard made a soft noise that had bile singing his tongue. “Would you mind if I paid you a compliment?” He sounded like gravel and hunger. 

It took Stiles a few tries, but he managed a respectful reply. “Of course.” 

“In all my years, I don’t think I’ve seen beauty quite like yours. Might I ask your age?” 

“I’m seventeen.” He choked on the number. Gerard looked delighted by this bit of knowledge. “So young, but so close to manhood.” 

Stiles mouthed mutely. Gerard didn’t mind, as he had more to say. “I see you’re playing slave to King Hale. He told Pericles you, only you would do. I understand.” His fingers skittered up the length of forearm, pressing into his inner elbow. “I have to admit to feeling a bit jealous of young Derek. He gets you all to himself. I doubt he’s keen on sharing, eh?” He laughed, and it was an ugly laugh. Stiles thanked every deity in Olympia that Derek was too much of a possessive pig to entertain ideas of sharing. 

“I’ve heard the strangest rumors as of late, have you...? Derek’s personal slave was running all amok, making to escape! It caused all sorts of fuss, sure did keep me from sleep. Now, that couldn’t have been you.” He looked Stiles dead in the eye, and Stiles had the hardest time talking. His throat worked uselessly around a lodged lie. Gerard smiled. “If he doesn’t make you happy, I’d be glad to. I’ve been told I’m an exceptionally generous Master.” 

Stiles was so sickened by that offer, he nearly vomited the vestiges of a previous meal all over Gerard and himself. He swallowed repeatedly. “No - I, no, that’s...alright. I’m happy, he...makes me happy.” 

Gerard finally released him, his white face dropping into a faux pout. “You’ll let me know if that changes, won’t you?”

Stiles spat a quick “y - yes!” and fled. He was at Derek’s side in a matter of microseconds. Derek excused them for the evening, gave his gracious thanks to their barely conscious host, and marched them from the room with a comatose Peter in tow. 

x

As they walked, Peter dangling between them, the silence was too breakable to last. “What did he say?” 

Stiles was completely out of his element. He was [used to be] in charge, knowledgeable, aware of the important happenings of his city. He knew what to do, when to do it, what to say, and how to say it. None of that applied to the here and now, whether it be at Derek’s side in a fleeting moment of camaraderie or underneath his Kingship fighting for the right to keep his legs closed. Even now, should he tell the truth? Lie? What would be the point of lying? He wasn’t at fault. “He said...I was beautiful.” 

Derek didn’t bother withholding his snarl, and all that unabashed rage was the stuff of night terrors. “Is that it?” 

“He asked for my age, and he mentioned my - ” Stiles winced. “ - running amok last night. He said if you didn’t make me happy, he...could.” 

Derek gripped Peter hard enough to purple him. The noises Stiles heard from him weren’t human. He didn’t say anything, Stiles didn’t think he could. 

“It’s alright, I told him you made me perfectly happy.” He muttered. Derek wore surprise strangely well, and it was the first genuine emotion Stiles had seen from him. 

Stiles shrugged, acting like none of this phased him. He was beyond phased. He was wrecked. “Nothing I haven’t heard before.” It was true, Derek had said similar things to him only yesterday evening. This gave Derek reason for pause. He stared firmly ahead of himself. His jaw spasmed harshly. Stiles could only wonder at what was dragging him so deep in thought. He looked guilty. Then, he was in agreeance with himself. He’d arrived at a decision of some kind. He didn't look at Stiles. “I apologize.” 

He didn’t need to say what for.

x


	3. Expecting You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek can't say 'no' to Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited: 8/28/2015
> 
> Enjoy!

In the middle of Derek’s upper back, dark swirls writhed over his skin. Three of them crawled from a sort of skewed center. It was a very black design that stood out from its curvilinear, brown canvas. They wrinkled and widened with Derek’s absent twisting and stretching. Derek was stained, and Stiles balked out how he hadn’t noticed before now. Derek hadn’t made any attempt at covering himself, he’d been [and continued to be] nearly naked since the moment Stiles first glimpsed him. He wondered if the stained skin felt any different, harder or rougher. He barely stopped himself from reaching out. 

He ripped his tagenite pancake into fluffy bits to give his hands something to do and dipped the frayed ends in his wine. He popped them in his mouth, operating completely on autopilot. The sun was a sleepy, pink ball creeping behind the acropolis. Derek stood by the window. He looked out at nothing for a moment more, then came to join Stiles for breakfast. He swiped a fat fig from his plate and took a bite, the purple skin ripping under his teeth. Stiles could sit in silence for only so long. There were a lot of questions to be asked. 

He quickly settled on, “why do you have a triskelion on your back?”

Derek paused in his systematic devouring of the fig. He swallowed the bite he’d just taken and sat the half eaten fruit back on his plate. “The triskelion means many things, as different people interpret it differently. To me, it’s...balance. Whether you take it as past, present, and future or creation, preservation, and destruction, the individual legs rely on one another to be complete. You cannot have the the body without the mind, the soul without the body. Balance is achieved in threes.”

Stiles was in awe of that explanation. He wasn’t expecting such insight to come from Derek. “That’s, well...” He trailed off, unwilling to be mean and unsure what else there was. 

Derek’s laugh was bitter and self - deprecating. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not a neanderthal, Stiles. Some measure of intelligence is required to rule, at least if you want to keep your rule.” 

Stiles puffed his cheeks out. He was a little ashamed of being called out on a biased preconception. His opinions and judgements were usually spot on. “I know that!” 

Derek made a noncommittal noise, and that was the end of that. They split a terra cotta bowl of black olives, crisp and kissed with morning moisture. Again, Stiles became uncomfortable with the silence and how easy it was to share with Derek. He chewed the salty, dimly bitter fruit; aromatic juices spritzed the inside of his mouth. A thoughtful look moved his moles into constellations. “We should go out.” He blurted. 

Derek squeezed his brows together. “Why?” 

Stiles threw his arms out. “Wh - because! I can’t speak on your behalf, my King, but I can only take so much sitting around or watching your men break each other like it’s good sport. There’s an entire city beyond these walls! Don’t you want to see it?” He was grasping at nonexistent straws, and they both knew it. 

Derek waved off his weak cracks at persuasion. “An entire city, that’s precisely right. Given the chance, you’d slip away like a specter through paper walls. I won’t take that chance, not with you.” 

Stiles cringed. He hadn’t done a great job of building up the trust between them. Derek had every right to suspect him of trickery. While he’d by no means given up his ultimate goal of getting home, he just wanted a few hour’s worth of something different. Only three days had passed, but he was already going mad with boredom. If he wasn’t Derek’s fidgety and unwilling shadow, he was left to his own devices [locked away in the same room, guarded by the same guards who’d adapted well to their duties]. He crunched obnoxiously on a mouthful of olives.

“Derek, I swear on the namesake of every deity I know, I will not try and escape you. Please, you must grant me this one request.” 

Derek barked an incredulous laugh. Stiles wondered if he ever laughed just because something was funny, then Stiles wondered if he’d ever heard a good joke. “I must grant you...? I’m under no obligation to grant you a single thing. You, however, are a slave -- my slave. A disobedient one, but a slave nonetheless. Between the two of us, you are the one who should be bending to my will without a word or tremble of hesitation. Tell me, Stiles, what was the last request of mine you so graciously granted?” 

Stiles couldn’t get a lid on his anger in time. He jumped to his feet, his full cup thunking on its side. Wine rushed over the table like a maroon river. “Whatever my status might be, I don’t owe you! Loyalty and obedience, as far as this slave is concerned, are things to be earned. Whoever my Master might be, they will treat me as a human being before I so much as make their bedding. If I’m to be punished for disobeying the likes of cruel and assuming men, so be it. You are not my Master, Derek Hale.” He spat the name out like it was a bad taste. His face blossomed party red, and his chest pumped out one laborious breath at a time. Gods, he was so upset he couldn’t see straight. Derek was a number of splitting blurs. 

They stared each other down with everything they would ever have. Stiles slowly calmed, and Derek approached him. Rightfully wary, he took a step back. Derek paused and splayed his palms placatingly. “If you grant me one request, I’ll grant you yours. Fair enough?” He said in a plain voice. Stiles eyed him. Derek had been full of surprises lately, and Stiles wasn’t sure how to handle it. It sounded like a simple enough deal, but there was no telling what he might ask for. After minutes of rigorous thinking, Stiles agreed. 

“A simple kiss, that’s all I ask.” 

Stiles opened his mouth to vehemently protest, because there wasn't any trust between them, but Derek stopped him cold with just a look. “It’s a good deal, and you’d be a fool not to take it. I give you my word, I want nothing but a kiss. I will not force anything beyond that.” He assured. Stiles chewed up his bottom lip, indecision rendering the pink flesh raw and slick. Despite their rocky beginning, Derek had his moments. Obviously consent was of some importance to him, or Stiles would be well without his closely guarded chastity. Derek was within his rights to take whatever he wanted from Stiles, but he hadn’t. 

Stiles decided that counted for something. He looked Derek brazenly in the eye and nodded once. That was permission enough, as Derek was in his space a breath later. Hands were big and grating on his face; his mouth was taken too suddenly for him to overthink their deal. Stiles hadn’t been kissed too many times in his life, but he knew no kiss [no matter the prowesses of the one bestowing it] would compare to that first one shared with Derek. It was wholly new, electrifying in a way that tickled him all over and raised the short hairs on his arms. 

He was ashamed to say he melted slightly. Derek didn’t mind. 

He grappled for purchase on spasming shoulders, his lips cracking open under Derek’s insistent swipes and soft bites. He struggled to breath around a string of fitful noises. Derek remembered to stop, step away. Fortunately, or maybe not, Derek was a man of his word.

x

They did go out, but it wasn’t the private affair Stiles had pictured. Isaac and Jackson were permanent fixtures at his sides, with Derek a short step ahead of them. Small crowds parted for them, and harried herds stopped to let them pass. Stiles didn't enjoy the limelight, he just wanted to slink back into the grey matter of anonymity and nondescript servitude. Derek was indifferent to the dirty, gawping faces around every bend. Jackson and Isaac, however, preened under the attention. They were an odd hodgepodge of personalities and social statuses, Stiles thought, and they shouldn’t be as amicable as they were.

"Did you have a destination in mind, or are we meant to wander aimlessly until you tire?" Derek grumped, his chin hooked over his shoulder so they might hear him. Stiles harumphed and pointedly said nothing. As silly as Derek made it sound, that was the plan. He wanted to wander aimlessly, he didn’t think he’d have a posse to entertain. He wasn’t their sherpa anymore than he was Derek’s eager whore. He turned to Jackson, seeking conversation outside the colorful parameters of Derek's monosyllables and apathetic grunts [not that Jackson would provide more than that]. 

"Is your hand causing you pain?" 

Jackson looked surprised to be addressed, or maybe that someone was asking after his wellbeing. Did he think Stiles would forget the admittedly morbid pleasure of shoving tapered bone through his flesh, repeatedly? Jackson was his patient, and Stiles kept up with his patients. Deaton said it so many times during their apprenticeship ["our job only ends with time, the time it takes for a wound to become a scar"]. If not properly cared for after immediate treatment, the smallest cut could ripen with infection. Jackson looked the type to ignore an injury until it went away on its own or eventually killed him. 

He lifted his wrapped hand and considered it, looking just as surly as he did when Stiles patched it up. Stiles was surprised to see fresh bandages hugging the slant of his hand. He wanted to ask if his wrap felt too tight, but didn't want to come off too maternal. He did that, apparently. Jackson shrugged. "Itches." He admitted. Stiles nodded, because without the regular application of paste, itchiness and mild pain were things to anticipate. "I'll make you a salve when we return, I wonder if Morrell has any Calendula - what?" 

Jackson looked at him like he was completely unhinged. It almost hurt his feelings. He was just trying to be friendly! Stiles decided to be the bigger man, in a manner of speaking, and not take the expression to heart. Jackson scowled and shook his head. Isaac caught his eye overtop Stiles’ unbrushed fluffs of hair and cut a series of meaningful facial gestures at him. He motioned to Stiles with a jerky nod. Jackson knew what he was getting at and puffed a sigh. “Thank you for...helping.” He offered lamely. Stiles blinked, both brows shooting into his choppy fringe. 

He didn’t sound very sincere, but Stiles got the feeling Jackson wasn’t one for verbal gratitude. Sincere or not, it was shocking to hear. Maybe he felt obligated because Derek was within earshot, and Stiles was Derek’s in that intimate way. Stiles was appreciative, whatever the reason. He bumped shoulders with Jackson like they were friends, because he didn’t care much for propriety [and he liked to pretend]. “I do what I can.” 

Unbeknown to the three of them, Derek was stewing in his own unprecedented feelings of surprise and perplexity. He knew what Stiles had done for Jackson. He’d turned it over in his mind regularly after learning the details from Peter. He asked himself why, when he was so close to getting away, would Stiles do something so...? He couldn’t fit the right word to it, but many came to mind [selfless, foolish, masochistic]. Derek would’ve used such an obvious weakness against his impromptu enemy, not sit him down and patch him up. That, more so than most incidents with Stiles at the epicenter, puzzled Derek.

He couldn’t decide if Stiles was too foolish to survive, slave to his misguided compassions, or just a better person than Derek would ever be. 

“How do you know so much of medicine and healing?” Isaac asked curiously. It was a fair question, as medicine was more miracle work than science. It wasn’t commonplace, but Stiles believed it would be, given time. 

In the Iliad, Homer wrote detailed descriptions of the wounded Machaon. Patroclus had to cut an arrow from his thigh, wash away bubbles of his blood with warm water, and treat his wound with soothing ointment. Even being as old as it was, more than three hundred years, medicine men still studied his text in temples dedicated to Asclepieia today. Not many understood it, just accepted that it chased away their pains. 

“My Master is a man of medicine, I’m his apprentice.” Stiles said, faint nostalgia coloring his voice. He knew it was only days ago that he and Scott were just learning how to weave good thread under Deaton’s easy instruction, but it felt like years. His home was a coil of smoky memory, doomed to dissipate against the roof of his skull, and he was afraid he might forget it completely. Suddenly, a destination came to mind. He hastened to Derek’s side and nudged him with an excited elbow. Derek scowled, but Stiles wasn’t deterred. He tried to make himself look as small and humble as possible. “Might we visit my home?” 

After several minutes of heated deliberation, they did.

x

Stiles knocked on the outer doors. He wasn’t about to parade his small legion of Spartans through Deaton’s home unannounced. Said legion were marinating in their combined discomforts behind him. Stiles could actually feel their collective turmoil gathered like a storm against his back. Derek was his own cumulonimbus mass, complete with thunderous sighs and lightening in his eyes. It must be odd for them, knocking on the doors of a lesser man instead of kicking them in. Although, Derek had proven himself to be less of the barbarian Stiles had him pegged as. Stiles reminded himself not to judge so harshly.

The doors swished open, and Stiles was ecstatic to see his Master’s brown face. All he could offer was a dopey smile. It was a fight not to smother him with floppy hugs or wax poetic about the smoothness of his swarthy head, but he kept still and subdued. Derek had done him quite a few favors that day, the least he could do was act like a slave should. He stepped aside so Derek and company could do all the greeting and explaining, as it wasn’t his place. Deaton looked surprised, but not surprised enough. Ironically, that didn’t surprise Stiles. Deaton knew something about everything important.

“King Hale, you’ve honored me with your presence.” He bowed deeply, and moved so they could enter. “Please, come in.” 

“Thank you.” Derek was stoic and overly formal. They filed into the courtyard one at a time, and Stiles was happy to be last in their orderly line of four. He beamed big and bright at Deaton as he sauntered past, and his Master visibly relaxed. Derek made a show of looking around, though Stiles couldn’t tell his approval from his disapproval. His eyebrows spoke a language all their own, and Stiles was still deciphering it. While Deaton wasn’t bathing in gold and silver, he was well off. Their home was nicer and larger than most. Then, he remembered he wasn't supposed to care, wasn’t supposed to want Derek’s approval. This was his home, and he liked it just fine. 

“You have a fine home.” Derek complimented, and Stiles felt a rush of unexpected warmth. He vehemently ignored it. Deaton smiled a neutral smile. “No need for flattery, my King, I’m sure it’s lackluster compared to your usual accommodations.” He laughed his meager bourgeoisie off elegantly. He continued before any more subtle barbs could be traded. “Will you and your men join me in the andron? I have plenty of food and drink, too much, if I’m honest.” 

Ever the collected and hospitable host, no matter if he was serving peasants or kings or Gods. He was everything Stiles remembered. He escorted them to their modest andron, and one look from Derek had him sitting on the ropy long - couch. He didn’t want to be here, sitting between Master I and II. He didn’t want to feel Derek’s naked heat sunburning his side, pinkening his ribs. He wanted to find Scott and pick garbanzo beans together like he never left, then maybe break down and talk about every moment of the past few days until his voice was too raw to leave his throat. “Derek, I should help in the kitchen - ” He started to whisper.

Again, just a look had him clamming up. Deaton left them to fetch the aforementioned snackage and was back just as quickly. However, the moments in between were stuffy, and Stiles got the feeling no one wanted to be here but him. Scott filed in behind Deaton, his arms ladened with fruit and wine. Their reactions to each other were instant and very noticeable. Stiles perked up and leaned forward, a silly grin halving his face. Scott’s mouth fell open, his eyes smacking between Stiles and the Spartans flanking him. He looked happy and terrified and on the verge of saying something stupid. 

He stuffed a proverbial fist in his mouth and carefully doled out three goblets. They caught eyes multiple times, desperately trying to communicate telepathically. Derek noticed in a bad way. 

“I see even kings cannot say ‘no’ to Stiles.” Deaton began lightly, getting straight to the heart of their visit. The following silence was short but unbearably tense. Derek looked taken aback by his straightforwardness. Then, he smiled a tiny thing. “I find it’s not worth the trouble.” He replied goodnaturedly, but with a hint of underlying steel [saying “don’t test me”]. Stiles was starting to regret coming home. He was a slave, had been almost all his life. He was used to being treated like a piece of pretty furniture and assuming total subservience in the presence of greater men, that didn’t mean he hated it any less than when he was a kid. 

To be talked about like he wasn’t right there, it drove him mad with the urge to loudly remind the room of his presence. He didn’t, because he knew better. Instead, he focused on Scott’s dopey, open mouthed smile and the hopeless slump of Isaac’s shoulder nudging his. Deaton drew in casual mouthfuls of wine. “How long will you and your men be here, in Athens?” He asked.

“As long as we must be.” Derek replied. He leaned over his spread legs, his knee knocking lightly against Stiles’ [who was starting to feel a little claustrophobic]. Deaton nodded like he knew the woes of politics, and he did to an extent. 

“I sincerely hope you plan to return Stiles to me before you take your leave.” The room held its breath. There it was, the question Stiles was both scared and eager to hear answered. He didn’t know what he’d do if Derek’s plans for him were long term. Derek was expecting the question, and he respected Deaton for asking it outright. He steepled his fingers under his bearded chin. 

“I’m not a thief.” He grunted. Immediately, tension began to bleed from the room. Stiles tried not to sag in relief. Derek glanced at him, his face closed off. “Leave us.” He ordered, and it was definitely an order. Deaton turned to Scott and made a similar request. Scott all but dropped the jug of wine on his toes in his haste to beat Stiles into the hall. Derek watched them hurry out with a frown. 

Once in the courtyard, they fell into each other, arms wrapping and squeezing and never letting go. Scott pressed his face to Stiles’ collar, and Stiles let his chin rest heavily on Scott’s browned shoulder. “I was scared.” It was muffled, but Stiles heard.

They clung tightly to one another for several minutes. Stiles didn’t know what to say, so he was grateful for the spare seconds to think. They reluctantly parted and dropped onto the bottom step at their heels, their synchronization uncanny. Stiles folded his arms around his bent knees and stared pensively into the dirt. Scott watched him, respectfully holding his tongue, but the nerves never left his face. “I...I’m sorry.” Stiles didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but he felt the need to say it. Scott tilted his head, always so puppy - like in his mannerisms. It was familiar in a good way. 

“Why? You were dragged off into the night against your will, how is that your fault?” He asked bitterly. 

“It’s not, but...you were worried. That was my fault.” 

“Stiles, I worry every moment you’re out of my sight. You need to face facts, you’re more accident prone than a three - legged mule.” They shared a helpless laugh that quickly died. Scott tried to catch his eye, and he eventually let himself get caught. Scott fumbled with his words before halfway getting them out. “Did he...? I mean - ”

“No.” Stiles put a stop to that question before it could fully develop. “No, uh, he didn’t.” Stiles considered telling Scott he tried, and if not for the timeliest of interruptions, he would’ve succeeded. For some reason, he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to besmirch Derek in the eyes of his dearest friend, because Derek had been decent to him. He played with his fingers. “He hasn’t - doesn’t hurt me, or...touch me.” Stiles thought of big masculinity nestled in the part of his legs, a shoulder purpling the soft meat of his stomach, deals and kisses that taste like fig. It scared him how not unpleasant he found those thoughts. 

Scott studied him through squinty eyes. “That’s good.”

“It is.” Stiles agreed without thinking, his mind the next room over. 

“Why did he want you, then? Pericles could’ve offered up one of his own slaves, Stiles, but he had you taken from us. You’re not exactly a model servant, you’re half - distracted at the best of times!” 

Stiles was at a loss. What could he say, Derek thought him beautiful? Thought he’d look splendid on his back? “I...I don’t know, Scott.” He lied. 

“I hope they leave soon. It’s not home without you.” 

Stiles took Scott’s hand in his and bit back an upsurge of tears. “I miss you too, I miss being here.” 

The quiet settled like a warm, specially knit throw. They tried not to think about their inevitable separation or how long it might be before they could do this again. They pushed back their respective fears and just enjoyed the time allotted to them. Stiles eventually remembered that particular something he wanted to share with Scott. “Hey, guess who thinks your name is ‘different, but in a good way’?” He teased. 

Scott blinked. “Uh, who?” 

“You’re queen, of course. Allison! Those were her words, you know, verbatim.” 

Scott sputtered. “You spoke to her?! Wha - ? When? Why? How does she know my name? Did she say something about me? Gods, Stiles, what did you tell her?” 

Stiles laughed hard enough to earn a few cramps in his side. “Calm down! King Hale and his men are the Argents’ esteemed guests. I bumped into her, literally. It was not my finest moment, I’d rather not relive it. She was very...sweet, as sweet as you imagine her to be. No, she doesn’t know who you are, just your name. I might’ve used it as my alias.” Scott looked at him like his sanity was in danger of expiring. He’d been on the receiving end of that look a lot today.

“Stiles, we are going to talk about this, in depth.”

“I look forward to it.” 

The grins they exchanged were reserved for brothers that flirted with trouble more often than not. They thunked foreheads and chuckled for no reason. The moment didn’t last, as Deaton led his guests from the andron. He and Derek seemed to be getting on surprisingly well. They spoke in low tones about something Stiles couldn’t hear. Jackson and Isaac wore their relief like badges of honor. Stiles almost felt bad, then he remembered they were uninvited guests on this outing. When Derek caught sight of him, his face darkened a disturbing shade or two. “Say your goodbyes.”

He and his men were through the outer doors before Stiles could get out a grateful word. Stiles stood and made a beeline for his Master. Deaton accepted his hug easily. “There is nothing to be done, Stiles, he is adamant about keeping you close until his business with Pericles is finished. I’m sorry, I’ve failed you.” Deaton’s normally placid voice was off in a way that hurt Stiles. 

“Don’t apologize, it isn’t the worst arrangement. I know you did all you could. I’ll be home in no time at all.” Stiles wasn’t entirely sure who he was reassuring. Scott stepped up for his goodbye hug, and Stiles was happy to step into it. That final embrace left them with bruises. “I’ll come back.” Stiles promised. 

x

This time, he and Derek took up the rear. Isaac and Jackson were several paces ahead, pretending to give them space. It was the most awkward silence Stiles had shared with Derek thus far, and he wasn’t sure why it was. Derek refused to acknowledge him or his increasingly sad attempts at conversation. Eventually, Stiles gave up and resigned himself to a soured afternoon. As they passed through fat shadows of the recently completed amphitheater [of Dionysus], Derek caved. He had to ask. 

“I was surprised to see Deaton...owned more than one slave.” It wasn’t phrased as a question, but it was. Stiles shot him a funny look. “You never asked.” ‘I didn’t think you cared’ went unsaid. Derek grunted, because it was true. He didn’t know much about Stiles, and Stiles didn’t know much about him. Their conversations usually didn’t cover favorite meals, past follies, or those intimate details that make up a healthy relationship. Their’s wasn’t meant to be a healthy relationship, he reminded himself. “How long have you served in that house, with...?”

“Scott. Uh, ever since I was a kid. I actually don’t remember much before Scott and Deaton. Scott, well he’s been there his whole life.” 

At Derek’s silence, Stiles went on. “His Mom used to be Deaton’s only slave. She didn’t want a family or a...baby. I mean, he never told us, but we kind of knew.” He didn’t have to say it, Derek understood. Scott was a bastard, a product of forced copulation. Despite not knowing Scott personally, that realization didn’t sit well with Derek. 

“When she was with child, Deaton took good care of her. He treats us like family, you know, not slaves. He helped her take care of baby Scott and toddler Scott.” Stiles laughed. His eyes were fuzzed over, and Derek knew he was picturing a tiny Scott. 

“But uh, when he was still really little, four or five, she got sick. She didn’t...last long, after.” The words were hard to get out, their delivery clumsy and uncomfortable. It...pained Derek to see Stiles bleed for a woman he’d never met and the heartbroken tot Scott used to be. Derek was beginning to understand that was just Stiles’ nature. He didn’t know what to say, Stiles didn’t need his condolences and they both knew it, so Stiles took it upon himself to change the subject. 

“Deaton bought me at auction when I was six, or so he tells me. I don’t remember my Mom at all, I barely remember my Dad. We were separated or...something. I was crying so hard, I remember that. I cried all the time back then.” He chuckled. Derek didn’t think it was funny. He pictured a small Stiles freshly ripped from his father’s arms, fat tears cleaving through the dust on his roasted cheeks, and scared out of his fledgling mind as all manner of scum throw out desperate bids for the soft, pretty thing he surely was. He felt something akin to a knife twisting a messy hole in his heart. 

He scowled.

Their conversation was getting away from him again, and he didn’t like the direction it was headed. “You and...Scott are close.” It was another question phrased as a statement, because Derek had too much pride to ask anything outright. Stiles exhaled suddenly through his nose, not quite a laugh. “That’s accurate, yeah. We, Gods, we’ve done absolutely everything together, he’s my brother in all but blood.”

That answer both reassured and frustrated Derek. He now knew Stiles’ relationship with Scott was a platonic one, but what did ‘absolutely everything’ mean? Derek didn’t know why he cared so much, why he cared about any of this. He resolved not to think about it, because it didn’t matter. The sun was beating down on them with a ferocity that only late noon brings. He stopped walking, Stiles followed suit. Isaac and Jackson turned to face them once they noticed the lack of noise on their heels. Derek angled his body towards them and looked back the way they came. 

“I’m due to speak with Pericles shortly. Jackson, you’re with me. Stiles, Isaac will escort you back. Do not leave his side.” He looked Stiles in both eyes, daring him to argue. Despite the inner strife Stiles caused him by simply existing, Derek didn’t want to leave him yet. It was that [not so] minor epiphany that pushed him to take the first step. He felt Stiles’ gaze on him for a long time after he turned his back. 

x

Isaac was friendly, Stiles decided, as they chittered on about literally everything [but nothing that mattered]. A little silliness made the idea of wasting in ‘his’ room for the rest of the day a little more bearable. Isaac was a lot like Scott, with his puppy - like tendencies and floppy curls. It was so much more difficult to fit him back in the role of bad guy. There was more to him than being a Spartan, he had become a square peg to the round hole that was Stiles precious preconceptions. Stiles liked Isaac, and he wasn’t supposed to like his captors. He shrugged off his mixed feelings, only to notice Isaac slipping him subtle looks. 

“What?” He huffed.

Isaac looked away. “What?” He parroted. 

“Don’t ‘what’ me! You’re giving me a...look.” 

Isaac smiled sheepishly. “I guess I was.”

“Well? What is it?”

Isaac embraced the puppy analogy wholeheartedly, ducking his head and kicking his feet as he walked. “You’re just...strange, the way you interact with my King is strange.” 

Stiles snuffled in agreement, because nothing had been normal for days. Strange was the first adjective he’d use in describing his recent experiences and escapades. “That’s a compliment if I’ve ever heard one.” Stiles smirked. 

Isaac waved a wild arm at him. “That, right there!”

Stiles reared back playfully and grinned on accident. “What, I can’t make jokes?” 

Isaac ignored the question. He looked away again. “He acts strangely with you too. I don’t know, I don’t think he was expecting you. I think...you’ll be good for him.” 

Stiles wasn’t expecting such seriousness. He didn’t know what Isaac was getting at and he wasn’t eager to analyze the message. Luckily [Zeus be damned, did he just think that?], they came upon his room before the quiet could stretch too thin. “I’ll be right here, at least until the King returns.” Isaac told him, and Stiles figured as much. He pushed into their room, contemplating a long nap or maybe twisting the sheets into a noose, but was stopped short at the feminine vision supine and stretched on their bed. He audibly choked, and that was enough to rouse her. Kate lifted her head from the mess of malachite pillows. 

“Scott.” She smiled that same red, twisted smile. “No, that’s not right, is it?” She laughed, and her voice had a natural scratchiness to it that rubbed Stiles in all the worst ways. She rolled about like a kitten in a wicker of sun - dried laundry. “This bed smells like you, you know. It smells like his Kingliness too. Has he ruined you yet, Stiles?” She purred at him, sliding her creme dela creme legs over the side of the bed. Stiles jolted at the sound of his name, because she wasn’t supposed to know it. He pressed himself against the door, feeling for the handle. He couldn’t find it and he was panicking. 

“He hasn’t? I wonder why.” She tapped her forefinger to her chin in faux thoughtfulness. How did she know that, how did she - ? She stood, beryl fabric drooping down a full shoulder. Beaded, marigold wisps whispered with every step she took towards him. She was taller than him, Stiles noted with disgust. 

“Is he...displeased with you? Can you not satisfy him like he deserves?” She pushed her hands into his hair, nails scraping lightly at the base of his scalp. She dragged her open mouth up the side of his face, her lower lip kept catching and sticking to his skin. 

Stiles’ heart was beating so hard, he couldn’t feel it. That didn’t make sense, but nothing was making sense, so it was okay. He cringed at the uncomfortable wetness associated with saliva. Isaac was right outside the door, if he just called out - “Gahmmph!” She wrenched his head back, her grip on his hair becoming brutal, and kissed him like she was trying to kill him. She ground his bottom lip between her teeth until the thin skin popped. They shared a small drink of his blood, in which she fed him drops at time with curls of her tongue, and Stiles thought he might be crying. His eyes burned, and he couldn’t see through a sudden fuzz. 

After an agonizing second or ten, she pulled away. “My, that was fun, wasn’t it? You’re a lot of fun, Stiles.” She licked her front teeth of his blood and made an appreciative noise Stiles wouldn’t be soon forgetting. She left him with a chilling smile and phantom fingers tearing out his hair. Goopy red settled in the dip of his throat. Bits of his torn lip flopped against his chin, and Stiles found a vase to vomit in.


End file.
